


"Mycroft is a terrible big brother" by Sherlock Holmes; Alternatively,"My'coff is a goo' bay'bee si'dder" by Jawn Wa'dson"

by embalmer56, sadistically_sweet



Series: The 'Co-' Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Play, Bathing/Washing, Bratting, Brotherly Bonding, Dummies, Little John - Freeform, Little Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft has the patience of a saint, Mystrade (if you squint), Non-Sexual Age Play, Spanking, dinos are very 'portant, nappies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: This was originally just an honest little RP on tumblr that grew into our first big collaboration, nearly TWO YEARS in the making!*the rest of the fic reads as a fic and not an RP cause we are amazing like that ;-)





	1. Introduction, or How It All Started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just an honest little RP on tumblr that grew into our first big collaboration, nearly TWO YEARS in the making!
> 
> *the rest of the fic reads as a fic and not an RP cause we are amazing like that ;-)

**squeakpigsrevenge** asked:  
How would Mycroft end up babysitting to begin with? I feel like he'd want to interact with Sherlock when he's small because it'd let them both be as affectionate as they want without their usual reservations. Jawn would be incredulous at best about My. At least at first.

 **sadieandmo** answered:  
Sadie: That’s a very good point. 'John' would fight tooth and nail to keep that ‘tough guy’ exterior up around Mycroft…his is not a baby, should anyone need to be reminded. But, Sherlock _does_ look awfully content to sit in his older brother’s lap. And Mycroft, while still being his normal stuffy, proper self, doesn’t sound as nearly condescending as he usually does. And John is starting to feel a bit left out.

 **squeakpigsrevenge:**  
A cuddle would be strong motivation. And Mycroft is be an excellent story teller. Sherlock brought him Jawn’s favorite book to read. The tiny doctor would creep closer and closer until he was practically in Mycroft’s lap anyways. By the time we learn why Grey crayon is so grumpy Jawn is fully in his lap and helping to turn the page.

 **sadieandmo** :  
Sadie: Mycroft would be relieved…as narrow as Jawn’s little bum is, and as tiny as Sherlock could origami in his elbows and knees, he still had to hold onto both of them so they wouldn’t tumble right out of the chair they were crowded in. Hard to do that and turn the pages…let alone keep both boys from snipping at each other over who’s turn it was to turn said page.

 **squeakpigsrevenge** :  
They make it through the whole book without incident, but all hell breaks loose when it’s time to select the next book. Sherlock falls to the floor kicking when Mycroft informs him that it’s Jawn’s turn to select a book. Sherlock “gave up his turn” for a book Jawn would like and now Jawn was going to pick another “crap” book. Which of course sets off Jawn shouting about what a good book the crayon book is, etc.

Mycroft learns the hard way that both little boys respond better to “Please” than they do to commands. Admittedly it works better on Jawn, who goes to select another book while Sherlock wiggles on the floor trying to bite Mycroft's ankles.

 **sadieandmo** :  
Sadie: A smart tug on an unruly lock of hair put a stop to that as Mycroft continued to explain why Sherlock would now be sitting on the floor and not his lap with Jawn this time, who brought back another book in The Grey Crayon series: Grey Crayon Goes To The Zoo. He wouldn’t insist on Mycroft making the animal noises, but he informed him that it would only add to the experience.

 **squeakpigsrevenge** :  
Sherlock rubbed at his stingy scalp and pouted as Jawn sprawled on Mycroft. Without the immediate attention available on Mycroft’s lap, he quickly became bored of Jawn’s dumb book and wondered to the toy box. He’d use his action figures to play out his own story. No crayons allowed.

 **sadieandmo** :  
Sadie: Mycroft hears him rustling about and tries to keep a sharp ear on him and pay attention to Jawn at the same time, letting the little doctor take over the story and read out loud.

Mycroft still had to make the noises, though.


	2. "I y'ike My'coff now." by Jawn Watson

 “At last, the Grey crayon had colored all the animals at the zoo.” Jawn said, patting the picture gently. “See! I told you this is a good book.”

Mycroft nodded, suddenly distracted by the silence in the rest of the room. That was not a good sign. Mycroft nudged the little doctor off his lap, causing him to whinge. “We must find Sherlock so that he can select the next book.”

 Jawn was slightly surprised at himself for forgetting his own friend; that’s just how deeply he’d been engrossed in his storytelling. Now that he was thinking about it, it had been awhile since he’d heard any snide remarks mumbled from behind a dummy, and in this case…silence was not always golden. There were no crashes or odd smells or discoloured smoke, so it couldn’t be  _too_ bad. He watched Mycroft stand, craning his neck to look up at him, and took his offered hand.

They moved through the few rooms on the first floor hand in hand. Mycroft opened cupboards and searched behind doors. “It’s a good thing I’m being accompanied by a detective as it seems our Sherlock has vanished into thin air,” he said, pulling back the shower curtain to glance into the tub.

Jawn blinked at Mycroft for a moment before steepling his small hands beneath his chin. Mycroft caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye and pressed his lips together tightly to keep from barking a laugh. Then he stood, sighed, and put his hands on his hips; “Sherlock HOLMES,” he called out, then waited for an answer. There was none. 

 “Sherlock  **HOLMES** , one!…”

“Two!

Jawn tipped his head to listen, but the flat stayed silent.

“If I get to three, I know one little boy who is going to have a stinging bottom!”

Jawn tapped at Mycroft’s elbow, “I know where he is…I think.” 

This time Mycroft couldn’t suppress his smile. “Let’s hear your deductions, then.”

“Well…” Jawn rocked on his heels, staring hard at the floor. “I don’t think he left the sitting room at all. We’d have noticed. And most of the toys at the top of the bin are soft, though that wasn’t true before…”

 “Hmm,” Mycroft hummed. Perhaps his little brother was right…Jawn wasn’t quite your average goldfish. “Sherlock’s reputation as the world’s ‘only’ consulting detective might need to be reevaluated,” he said, patting Jawn on the head. “How should we lure him out? Threat of torture? Tie a string to a box and a stick and set his microscope underneath?”

Jawn glowed under such high praise. “He’s already in the biggest box in the flat. And he’s not allowed to touch the microscope when he’s little. He made that rule himself.”

“How oddly insightful of him.” Mycroft opened a cupboard and pulled out a package of Jammie Dodgers. “Would you like a biscuit, Jawn?”

Both Jawn and Mycroft watched as the cardboard toy bin started to wiggle. The corner of Mycroft’s mouth ticked up. “It’s a shame there’s no one else here to share them with, isn’t it?” he said to no one in particular, gaze focused on the wiggling box. “What should we do with the rest of them? Throw them to the birds? Eat them ourselves?” 

 No sooner than the words left Mycroft’s lips, there was a bold, window-shaking cry of “ **NO!** ” as a red-faced detective exploded from his hiding spot, sending stuffed animals flying every which way. 

“…It must have been getting uncomfortable in there, folded up that way,” Mycroft added, unfazed.

Sherlock nearly toppled out of the box in his haste to get to the proffered biscuits in Mycroft’s hands.

“Where you sitting on my dinosaur figures?!” Jawn demanded, poking Sherlock in the shoulder with his cookie.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and reached for another biscuit, growling when Mycroft pulled the package out of reach.

“Why were you hiding in the toy bin?”

“And why did you sit on my dinosaurs! If you bent the Brachiosaurs’ neck…” Jawn shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth and went to rescue his toys.

“Biscuit!” Sherlock demanded imperiously, but a cocked eyebrow from Mycroft had him shuffling in place. “Wasn’t hiding.”

“You were pouting.” Mycroft didn’t have to ‘guess’; it was obvious. “You were pouting because it was Jawn’s turn to pick out a book, even though you were the one who picked out his favorite first. Selfless acts aren’t selfless when done with the expectation of reward, Sherlock.”

Sherlock folded his arms and looked down at the floor. “…I didn’t sit on his stupid dinosaurs,” he mumbled, ignoring his brother’s words. 

Jawn rushed back into the kitchen, a plastic triceratops clutched to his narrow chest. “His horn is broken!” The horn on the toy’s snout was bent at a strange angle.

Mycroft grimaced at the tears suddenly streaming down John’s cheeks. “Will a plaster fix it?”

“No, no, no,” Jawn sobbed.

“Even if it was an Elmo plaster?” Sherlock offered, looking stricken.

“Elmo?” Jawn hiccupped.

“Yes. I saved the last of the Sesame Street plasters. You can use it to save your rhino…”

“Is'a triceratops.”

 “Try-sarah-tops,” Sherlock repeated, overly enunciating the name, and darted off to find the first-aid kit that Jawn insisted they keep in the flat.

Mycroft sat down and pulled the teary little man into his lap while giving the plastic dinosaur a good once-over. “A plaster is just what he needs,” he announced as his final verdict. “And he’ll be the snazziest dinosaur among his friends while it heals. ‘Elmo’ is all the rage,” he said, though he didn’t have a clue what an ‘Elmo’ was. 

Jawn sniffled and wiggled closer, leaning heavily into Mycroft. If anyone could fix a problem, it most certainly was Elmo. 

Sherlock skidded into the kitchen, the bulky first aid box in tow. “We also have Avengers and Peppa Pig plasters, Jawn!” Sherlock set the box on the kitchen table and opened it, before turning wide eyes on Mycroft.

“Oh, of course.” Mycroft huffed, pulling a pair of gloves out of the box and snapping them on. “Has the patient decided which plaster they would prefer?”

Jawn chewed the thumb that had made its way into his mouth.

 “Don’t chew on your thumb, lad…” Mycroft said, taking him by the wrist and gently moving his hand away. “There’s all sorts of nasties that live to live under fingernails.”

Sherlock nodded; “Jawn’s a chewer!” he said, opening the tin with superheroes on it. “There’s lots and lots of Hulks left, and lots of Captains…I used all the Iron Man’s, though,” he added. Sherlock was just as chatty when he was Little as he was when he was big (if not more so). 

Jawn scowled at Sherlock. “Of course you used all the Iron Man plasters.”

“His suit isn’t even made of iron so the name is dumb, but he’s still a fascinating character.”

Jawn turned his frowny little face to Mycroft. “Elmo.”

“Yes, alright…which one of these is Elmo?”

Sherlock smirked at him. “You mean you don’t know?” he said, feigning innocence. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted and pulled the band aid with the little red monster out of the stack. Mycroft carefully unbent the little horn and wrapped it in a plaster. “Thumb, Jawn.”

 Jawn pulled his thumb out of his mouth and squeezed his small hand into a fist.

 “Now, I think with some rest this Triceratops--”

“Jeffrey.”

“--Jeffrey will be good as new.”

 “Maybe Jawn and Jeff- _frey_ need a nap,” Sherlock snapped, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “That’s why all he’s done is whinge and cry today!” 

“As opposed to hiding in the toy in when he didn’t get his way?”

“Tha’s different! At least I didn’t _cry_.” He looked back at Jawn. “Because that’s ALL he does when he’s little!”

Mycroft had to tighten his grip and clasp Jawn’s clenched fist so it wouldn’t collide with his brother’s face. “Oh, Sherlock…really?! How do you both survive living with each other?!”

Jawn scrubbed angrily at the tear stains on his cheeks. “I’m not a cry baby! You’re a whingey baby!” he shouted, struggling to get off Mycroft’s lap.

“Why don’t you cry about it some more, you weepy willow!” 

Jawn gaped, affronted. “Hold Jeffrey,” he said, shoving the plastic triceratops into Mycroft’s chest.

“Enough!” 

Both little boys startled and stared wide eyed at Mycroft. “Until one of you can tell me what the problem is, you are both going to sit in time out. Now.”

 Sherlock plopped down onto the floor, cross-legged, and folded his arms over his chest. “You can’t make me,” he grumbled. 

“Sherlock…”

The little detective huffed, blowing a wave of hair off his forehead, but stayed silent. 

“If that’s the way you want to go about it, fine with me. You go stand in that corner,” Mycroft pointed to the opposite wall with his elbow. “And Jawn will go stand in the other-”

“You were here to see  _ME!_ ”

Mycroft is speechless…not an easy state to catch him in. “But-”

“Me! Not him!”

Jawn sat very still, tears building in his throat that he refused to let out. He was not a crybaby!  “Y..yo..you’re a jerk,” he stuttered, wrenching himself off of Mycroft’s lap. He turned in place once, unsure where to hide to lick his wounds, before stomping down the hallway and slamming the nursery door. Repeatedly.

Mycroft was at a loss. Sherlock had orchestrated this visit so that he and Jawn could build a relationship and now…

Mycroft carefully slid off his chair and sat next to Sherlock on the floor. The little detective’s lip trembled. Mycroft held his arm out and waited for his brother to decide what he wanted to do…before he could blink, Sherlock slid over and tucked himself at his side.

 “I did come here to see you.” Mycroft closed his arm around the little detective’s frail shoulders. “And I came to see Jawn, too…that was the plan.”

 “But not more than me,” Sherlock said, his voice tight from holding back tears. 

“No, not more than you…but you were the one to walk away and hide from us first, lad.”

“Because you…you both…” Sherlock gave up and pressed his lips together tightly. He hunched closer, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft rested his chin on top of a mop of curls. “We never say these things,” he said, then paused; “...the most important ones.” He ran a steadying hand down Sherlock’s back, feeling him tremble. “There is no one on this Earth more important to me than you. And, I know for a fact, John feels the same.”

Sherlock glanced up at him with watery eyes. “He’s…better…than me. Easier.” Sherlock pulled away. “And you’re…you. What if…”

 “He’s different, not better.” Mycroft refused to let Sherlock pull away from his hold. “I…haven’t been the best example of a brother.” Hard as it was for him to ever admit fault, it was true. “And John has never had one. I was attempting…” The implicit “to make up for it” was left unsaid, but it was there. He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize how it was making you feel. I do now. Let’s go fetch Jawn and apologize to him, too.” Mycroft climbed to his feet with a series of grunts that were at best ‘undignified’, and held down his hand for his little brother. 

“What if he doesn’t like me anymore?” Sherlock asked, taking Mycroft’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up.

“That seems terribly unlikely.” Mycroft pulled the little boy into a one armed embrace as they walked the short distance down the hallway. Mycroft nudged Sherlock forward and he tentatively knocked on the door.

“Jawn.” When there was no response, Sherlock opened the door and peeked in. Jawn was on his side on the bed, frowning his little heart out. Sherlock sneaked into the room and curled on the bed behind him.

“...You’re a crap sharer,” Jawn whispered after what seemed like an eternity.

“I’m the youngest in my family. And an only child with you…I’ll learn.“

Jawn still wouldn’t look him in the eye, but at least Sherlock didn’t feel as if he was still in danger of getting punched. “Jawn?” He sat up on his knees and inched closer. “Jawn?” He was as close as he could get without wearing Jawn’s clothes with him. “Jawn?…Jawn? Jawn? Jawn, Jawn, Jawn, Jawn.” Sherlock was now pressing his face right against Jawn’s, making his nose squish downward. “…Jawn,” he whispered. 

Jawn chewed his lip, but couldn’t stop himself from snorting out a giggle, and once he’d started he couldn’t stop. “You stink so much!” He said, pressing his own face against Sherlock’s. “How do you do this every time?!”

Sherlock sighed heavily; “It’s a blessing and a curse.” Which set them both off to giggling.

 There was a low groan from the doorway. “You’re both going to put me off sweets for months…one word out of you, brother mine, and you’ll both be taking extra-long naps today.” Mycroft pushed away from the doorframe he’d been leaning against and came to sit beside his brother, pulling him into his lap. He wrinkled his nose; “Jawn’s right, you do stink…we’ll have to change you in a bit.”

Jawn’s giggles ended abruptly as his cheeks blushed. “That’s probably me, actually.”


	3. "My'coff is a Mean," By Sher'yock Holmes. Alternatively: "I'm not a cry bay'bee," by Jawn.

Sherlock gave him a beatific grin as Mycroft pulled a face. “Good job, Jawn! You didn’t even need help.” 

“How would you help someone wet a nappy…wait never mind. There are some things I’d prefer not to know.”

“Why don’t we get you padded up and we can demonstrate for you, brother mine," Sherlock said, waggling his eyebrows. 

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Jawn crowed.

“I should have left you both fuming at each other,” Mycroft muttered.

“Aw, why not?!” Sherlock chided him.

Jawn decided to pipe in; “Sherlock’s should fit, you’re not that far off in size!” The last bit earned him an offended squawking noise, while Mycroft rolled his eyes and debated shoving his brother out of his lap like the soggy lump he was...but he had to gain back his upper hand and restore the balance of being the babysitter. “Since I only have one set of hands, but two wet little imps…should I call for assistance, hm? Perhaps Nana, should you both prove to be uncooperative?”

 “No, no, no! We’ll be good!” Sherlock said as Jawn nodded emphatically. They both loved Nana, the sweet old dear, but she didn’t put up with fuss and was quick to deliver a smack. 

Mycroft hummed to himself; “Sherlock, pull out what we’ll need to change two nappies.” He shooed his baby brother off his lap and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked as he pulled the bin of changing supplies from under the bed.

 “Gloves.” Mycroft said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes; “ _Yes_ , Your Majesty!” he shouted mockingly at Mycroft’s back while Jawn stuck his tongue out and giggled as if it were the best joke in the world…then, he stopped.

“He’ll change…both of us?” he asked. He liked the man well enough at times, but, well…their interactions never involved his bits before. 

“That’s what he implied,” Sherlock said with a shrug as he dug out a package of wipes, a bottle of talcum powder, and two nappies. Truth was, he sounded more blasé than he felt…it wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft had changed him, but that had been when he was actually small. “Why…do you  _want_  to marinate in your own piss all day?”

“Language,” Jawn said absently, his face scrunched in concentration. “Couldn’t we change each other?”

“Shouldn’t the babysitter be changing us?” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was arguing; having Jawn change him sounded like an excellent plan.

Jawn shuffled uncomfortably; he’d already been wet for too long and his skin was starting to chafe. “Just seems strange to have a bloke who isn’t you touch my bits.”

“Mycroft is hardly a bloke," Sherlock quipped, which set them off giggling again.

“I could hear every word you said, despite the donkey-esque braying you both did.” Mycroft entered the room, snapping a pair of disposable black nitrile gloves over his hands. Like his brother, his fingers were long and tapered…a musician’s hands. Or someone who could at least be decent with an instrument. 

“Are you psychic now, as well?” The defiant tone in Sherlock’s voice was undermined by the faint blush underlining his cheekbones at the snapping sound the medical gloves made. John had conditioned him well. 

Mycroft nodded towards the head of their bed…where the traitorous little baby monitor sat. “Little boys shouldn’t be using such language, Sherlock. Up on the bed…you’re going first.”

Sherlock squared his narrow shoulders. “Jawn is going to change me," he declared. He glanced over his shoulder at Jawn, who was chewing on the corner of a pillow he had clutched to his chest.

Bollocks.

“Jawn is far too little to change your nappy, Sherlock. Please don’t be tedious...this needn’t be anymore unpleasant than it already is.”

Sherlock slowly scooted up the bed and laid down. As the tapes on his nappy came undone he blindly reached for Jawn, and the little doctor quickly replaced the corner of the pillow with Sherlock’s thumb.

Sherlock was startled by the feeling of Jawn’s mouth and tongue wrap around his thumb.   _‘Not good. Not. Good. Not good, not good, not good not good NOT GOOD.’_ He turned his head to the side and studied his poster of the periodic table, distracting himself with putting them in order by their atomic mass. 

Mycroft simply worked with the facts: He was changing his little brother. He was wiping his little brother clean. He’d done this before, numerous times. So what if things were a little…bigger, and there was more hair now? He tapped on Sherlock’s hip; “Bum up."

Sherlock lifted his hips automatically. He had his nappy changed all the time. And there was never anything sexy about it. Well, almost never--except this time his thumb was in Jawn’s mouth and he was sucking on it like it was the only thing keeping him on Earth.

A glance at Jawn’s stricken expression tamped down the festive feelings.

Mycroft put a nappy under him and settled his bum on top of it. The rest happened with the same clinical ease Mycroft seemed to give all tasks, and he frowned at that...Mycroft could have been doing some filing as far as anyone could tell.

Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing that he’d wee’d on his bespoke suit.

“Alright then,” Mycroft said, patting his thigh. “Jawn’s turn.”

Jawn blushed furiously and shook his head.

“You can’t stay in a wet, smelly nappy all day, Jawn,” Mycroft said gently, coaxing him.  “You don’t want a nappy rash, do you? No, I would think not…that would be a terrible, awful experience. Look, Sherlock’s going to stay right here, yes?”

The little detective looked up at hearing his name and popped his thumb out of his mouth. “Told you he cries lots.” 

“Sherlock.”

“What? He does!” 

“That’s not being helpful. Remember how we just talked about being nicer to each other, hm? Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a good cry…you have a powerful set of lungs yourself, you know.”

“He has a selective memory," Jawn said, scrubbing at his eyes. “Him being a weepy baby gets deleted just as soon as he gets what he wants.”

“Typical.” Mycroft smirked at the affronted look on Sherlock’s face. “Come here now, Jawn, and it'lll be over quickly. Then we can have lunch.”

“Will there be enough left over for us?” Sherlock sneered.

“As you can see, Sherlock is cranky and needs to be fed and then put down for a nap, so hurry along.”

Jawn shuffled in place. “Promise you won’t leave?” he whispered.

Sherlock wilted at that; "A'course, Jawn. Promise.” Sherlock scooted over to make room for Jawn, who hesitantly slid into place.

Mycroft undid Jawn’s trousers and tugged them down to mid-thigh with slow, measured movements--the same way people behaved around an animal they didn’t want to spook. “Good boy, almost done,” he murmured. 

Sherlock sat with his arms crossed, only half paying attention. He was still stewing over the ‘nap’ comment...he didn’t  _need_  a nap, and by God, he wasn’t going to take one! He would raise bloody hell first before–!

The thought was interrupted with worried little whimper at the back of Jawn’s throat–Mycroft was using his bunched up trousers to lift his bum up, and it wasn’t amusing to the little doctor, not in the slightest. Sherlock reached out absent-mindedly as he watched, fascinated, and began to pet Jawn’s hair. 

Jawn pressed into the touch as he chewed on his own thumb. Why did he think this would be ok? Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers, so at least that made it a little less weird. Tears prickled his eyes as his nappy was stripped off and his bits felt the chill of the room. Damn...he really was a cry baby. Why was he always crying?!

Mycroft moved quickly, holding tight to Jawn’s trousers to keep the squirming baby in place and muttering soft encouragements in order to stall the fit he was seemingly about to throw.

“What do you want for lunch, Jawn?” Sherlock asked, sliding down the bed until he was pressed shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Dunno,” Jawn said, his voice watery. He knew what Sherlock was trying to do, but he couldn’t focus on much besides the fact that Mycroft, frontrunner of the British Government and overall snobby prick, was changing his nappy…and being  _nice_  about it. But God, being lifted in the air like this?! Jawn knew he was a small man, but having your lower half lifted and cleaned like an infant…

He didn’t know why it felt more vulnerable than just being nude, but it was. 

Sherlock propped his chin on Jawn's shoulder and huffed into his ear. “I want Thai.”

“No,” Mycroft said, coating Jawn liberally in powder. 

Sherlock sat up and whinged; “Why not? We always have takeout!…”

“Because I will not be changing _those_ nappies.”

“Don’t be vile, Mycroft," Sherlock said, flopping back down next to Jawn.

Mycroft pulled the nappy over Jawn's bits, and taped it closed. He smiled to himself as he watched the tension drain from the little doctor’s chest. “Not vile, brother mine, pragmatic. And, anyways, spoon feeding two fussy little boys doesn’t sound like an enjoyable time.”

“We can feed our selfs!” 

“Yes, just as you can change yourselves.”

Sherlock huffed and curled around Jawn. The nappy change had left the little doctor subdued, which left it up to Sherlock to air their self-righteous indignation.

“I was thinking chips," Mycroft cut in before he could utter a peep.

 Sherlock sat straight up as if on a loaded spring, knocking Jawn aside. “Chips? You mean it?” 

Mycroft removed Jawn’s trousers completely, leaving him in just his nappy and jumper for convenience (the fact that he looked incredibly adorable a fortunate, but unrelated, bonus), and now took his hands to help him sit up. “Careful, Sherlock…and yes, I meant it. Chips, fish, vinegar, and greasy newspaper; all of it. You only have to promise that you’ll finish most of it instead of poking at it.”

“Jawn likes extra vinegar!” Sherlock wiggled in place, his sour mood forgotten.

“He doesn’t need nagging to get him to eat chips. He’ll eat his and mines and yours, if we let him," Jawn said, tugging ineffectually at his jumper to cover his nappy. 

Mycroft merely hummed as he gingerly picked up the soiled nappies and went to throw them away in the bin in the kitchen. Sherlock hopped along behind him, dragging Jawn by the hand. 

“I need trousers and pants if we’re going to the chippy," he grumbled.

 “Trousers, perhaps, but pants would only be redundant.” Mycroft stripped his gloves off with another snap that sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine and caused him to clench Jawn’s hand. “Those trousers were damp and smelt sour, but you’re welcome to put them back on if you’d like,” he added with a smirk. “Though, I wouldn’t hesitate to say we’d likely get faster service if you stayed as you are.” 

Sherlock snorted while Jawn’s face blushed from the top of his head down to the neckline of his jumper, and likely farther than that. “I’m NOT…! You wouldn’t…!” he sputtered. 

Mycroft tossed the gloves in the bin. “Of course I wouldn’t, but it’s a highly amusing thought, isn’t it? You’re almost as high strung as Sherlock.”

“More so," Sherlock said, giving Jawn a loud smooch on top of his sandy head. “I don’t know how many times I have to say ‘Jawn is a cry baby' before people listen to me.”

“Do you need to sit on the naughty step?” 

Jawn, who’d been waffling between chewing his thumb and pulling down his jumper (because God forbid he let go of Sherlock’s hand) looked up in alarm; "No, thank you!"

“So polite, but I was speaking to Sherlock. If you can’t be kind, baby brother, then you will sit on the stairs by your lonesome while Jawn and I get ready to go out.” 

  “But, but…! You teased him, too!”

“Yes, I teased him, and then I stopped when I saw him getting upset. There’s a difference between playful teasing and being mean-spirited...you should know. Apologize to Jawn, please.”

Sherlock’s face began to scrunch up. “But I…I didn’t do anythin’ wrong! He knows I don’t mean it!”

“I don’t think he does, Sherlock. Not when he’s little. If you can’t apologize, then go sit on the step until I tell you to get up.” Mycroft reached for Jawn’s unoccupied hand. “Come along, little one…Sherlock needs some alone time.”

“I can’t stay with Sherlock?” Jawn asked, staring down at where his and Sherlock’s hands were joined.

“You need trousers, remember? And Sherlock needs to sit on the step.” 

“Oh.”

Sherlock scowled murderously at Mycroft. He squeezed Jawn’s hand before letting go and stomping out onto the landing to sit on the step.

 “What trousers would you like to wear?” Mycroft asked, herding the little doctor back to the nursery. 

“Green.” Jawn watched Mycroft rifle through the cupboard, pulling out a pair of dark green trousers. “I should sit on the step with Sherlock so he’s not lonely. He’s always lonely without me.”

 “He can stand to be a little lonely right now…hands on my shoulders; step in,” Mycroft replied, bending down and holding the trousers out. 

Jawn obeyed and held onto the man’s shoulders to steady himself, but turned his head to look back into the hallway. “But he–”

“ ‘But he’ is in time-out, and during time-out, you aren’t allowed to have company.” Mycroft pulled Jawn’s trousers up and over his nappy, discovering that, once they were buttoned and zipped, they fitted rather snugly across the bum. “Can you get your shoes and socks on like a big boy?”

Jawn nodded slowly; he could be a big boy. He pulled a pair of purple socks out of the cupboard and then dropped to his belly to dig under the bed for his shoes.

Mycroft left Jawn to it and walked down the hallway, then leaned on the doorframe to the landing.

Sherlock sniffled pitifully and made a show of not looking at his big brother.

"...Are you ready to apologize?”

Sherlock merely huffed a put upon sigh in response. Mycroft rolled his eyes and settled on the step next to Sherlock. Despite himself, the little detective leaned into his big brother. They stayed that way for several moments, listening to Jawn struggle with his lace ups in the nursery.

“Stubborn little thing you are, always have been.” Mycroft used a finger to lift Sherlock’s chin up. “Jawn’s more than ready to forgive, but you have to be willing to say you’re sorry first.”

Sherlock pouted up at him.

“No, that’s not going to work. You can apologize and come with us, or you can stay here with Nana while Jawn and I go.”

Sherlock pulled away from his brother. “I don’t need to stay with Nana…I can stay by myself!”

“You are far too little–”

“No I’m not!”

“Then why are you near tears after being sat on the naughty step?”

“I’m not crying! You’re mean!” Sherlock shouted, working himself into hysterics. “I’m very big and I can do things by my own self!”

“Settle down, Sherlock.”

“No! You’re not the boss of me, Myc!”

“Sherlock?” Jawn said quietly from the doorway, one shoe on the wrong foot, the other in his hand.

Sherlock stared at him, breathing hard as his tantrum winded down. Jawn crossed the landing and wedged himself onto Sherlock’s lap, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t be upset. I’ll find your shoes, too.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and wrapped long arms around his little friend; even when he was being mean, Jawn always tried to help him.

Mycroft stood, smiling faintly. “Sherlock…don’t you have something to say?”

Sherlock cringed and hid his face in Jawn’s jumper; "….”

“Say it again, where we can hear you.” 

A single red-rimmed eye made an appearance, followed by a nose and half a mouth. “…’m sorry,” he mumbled. 

“For…?”

He sighed. “For calling Jawn a crybaby…even though he is.”

“Sherlock.”

The little detective reached up and twisted one of his curls around his finger, then tugged on it. “Really sorry…I don’t mind when Jawn cries,” he admitted, his brow furrowing in the middle. 

“I mind, an awful lot actually,” Jawn said with a sigh. 

“Little boys cry, Jawn. I’m sorry I made you think it wasn’t okay.” 

Jawn patted Sherlock’s cheek gently before handing his shoe to Mycroft. “Help?

"There have been far too many saccharine moments this morning," Mycroft said, mostly to himself. “Sherlock, go get your shoes. I’d like to leave before another outbreak of histrionics occurs.” He guided Jawn to sit on the fifth step up and took his foot in hand, stripping it of the wrong shoe and deftly replacing it.

Sherlock disappeared into the nursery and was back moments later, shoes on the correct feet. He bounced on his heels; “Can I have two orders of chips?”

“And an ice cream cone?” Jawn peeped as Mycroft helped him off the steps and into his jacket.

 Sherlock took Jawn’s smaller hand in his own. He was practically vibrating with excitement; when John was the Daddy, there were far too many vegetables and far too few chips. He swung Jawn’s hand wide as they hurried down the steps after Mycroft.

Mycroft paused at the front door and glanced over his shoulder at squirmy little boys behind him. "What kind of behavior do I expect," he said, hoping to drive his point home.

Sherlock threw his head back and sighed. “The best behavior. We know! They are gunna run out of chips!”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow but turned and swung the door wide, ushering the little boys out before shutting the door.


	4. "My Brother Has Become a Baby Bird and It's Sweeter Than It Ever Ought To Be", by Mycroft Holmes; Alternatively, "No, He's MY Bay'bee!" by Jawn Wad'son

Luckily the street was nearly deserted, the midmorning rush over. Sherlock, too far into headspace to put on his mask, chattered at Jawn about everything that he saw.

Mycroft now understood why there were people who put their children on leads. He would remember to check online if they made any in adult sizes before the next time he babysat…though, considering half the stuff Jawn and Sherlock had already found and purchased, he’d be willing to bet a large sum of money that finding a pair wouldn’t be that difficult. “Stay in sight,” he reminded.

“Oh-KAY,” Sherlock snapped. There was a lot of attitude from the little detective today, which was only _half_  his fault…the other half was usually remedied by a full swat from John’s calloused hand that drove any snark right out of him in a hurry.

Jawn squeezed his hand and glared; “If I miss out on chips and ice cream because of YOU, I’m not playing with you anymore!”

“Yes, you will.” Sherlock smooched Jawn’s cheek.

Jawn scrubbed at his cheek with his free hand. “Will not.”

“Yes-huh, cause I think up the best games.”

“Do not!”

“Shush, both of you.” Mycroft held open the door to the chippy, grateful for the mercifully short walk. He snagged Sherlock’s arm before he could drag Jawn to the back of the eating area to an array of video games and claw machines.

“But My, we want to play the games!” Sherlock whinged, trying (and failing) to pull his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp. “I wanna show Jawn how good I am at claw machines!”

Holding firmly to his little brother’s arm, Mycroft placed their order with the disinterested teenager behind the counter.

Sherlock stared balefully back at the rows of games and tried one more time to free himself…with no such luck. “My, please?!” he begged, with little regard to the volume of his voice. “We’ll stay right there!”

“Shhh…you’ll stay right here.” Mycroft pulled his wallet out to pay, with Sherlock’s elbow hooked within his. “You can play after you eat.”

“But why not now?!”

“Because now you’ll have something to look forward to.”

“But I’m looking forward to it now!” Sherlock tugged again, his face growing stormy.

Mycroft turned his back to the teenager and moved Sherlock in front of him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, speaking low. “Do you want your chips, or do you want to go home for a nap?”

“I want to play the claw machines," Sherlock grumbled, seemingly oblivious to the thunderous look on Mycroft’s face.

“You have exactly three seconds to change your attitude before an early nap is the least of your worries," Mycroft growled.

“We’re not getting ice cream, are we?” Jawn asked with a frown.

Mycroft shot him a withering look. “No. I should think not. Naughty boys don’t get treats.”

“Jawn was being good! Why don’t you want us to have fun?”

Mycroft ignored his little brother, turning instead to the girl behind the counter. “We’ll be taking our order to go, thank you.” He made both men sit at a nearby table while their food was packed up. “Bums stay in the chairs, or they become targets,” he said before walking back to the counter. Thankfully, there were only three other customers in the place, and two grown men pitching fits and pouting were hardly the strangest sight London had ever seen.

Jawn propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “It’s not fair…you were the one being a baby!”

Sherlock sneered at him; "Shut up.” He then slouched low in his seat and folded his arms across his chest; "…I only wanted to play a game, just one,” he mumbled. “Not even a long one.”

“I wanted ice cream. I guess neither of us get what we want ‘cause you are naughty,” Jawn stuck his tongue out at Sherlock before turning his attention back to Mycroft.

Sherlock scowled at the table for a moment before stealthily sliding out of his chair. Despite being heavily padded, he moved gracefully around the few other patrons and to the back of the dining room.

Within seconds, he was pushing coins into the claw machine and guiding the claw expertly. He dropped it over his selected prize and the machine scooped it with ease and dropped it into the bin.

Sherlock, completely forgetting he was supposed to be sneaky, let out a whoop as he bent to collect his prize. The loud squeak he made when a large hand connected with his padded bottom was less dignified. Sherlock bolted upright, spinning on his heels to face the very red face of his older brother.

“What did I tell you?!” Mycroft scolded, all but wagging his finger in his little brother’s surprised face. “‘Stay in your seat’ means stay in your seat, not ‘get up and do as you please!’”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed but for once, he didn’t have a clever retort. His hands drifted back over his bum…not that it had hurt, not over his coat, trousers, and his nappy, but it had shocked him nonetheless. He looked out over the rest of the restaurant to see if anybody had seen only to find that each and every one was staring back at him before they all politely averted their gaze.

Sherlock blushed heavily and looked down at the floor instead, blinking furiously to keep the tears that were forming at bay.

Mycroft continued to glare at him and reached down to collect the small toy Sherlock had won, then put it in his coat pocket. “We’ll finish this little discussion at home,” he said, putting his hand on the small of the younger man’s back, and then turned to Jawn. “Let’s go, Jawn…bring the food with you, please.”

Jawn held Mycroft’s hand on the walk home, glancing over his shoulder every few steps to see Sherlock trailing behind them.

The little detective kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk.

Jawn wanted desperately to chew his thumb, but he was being a big boy and helping carry the takeaway bag. "You’re not going to be mean, are you, Mycroft?” he asked softly.

Mycroft turned to glare at Jawn, but softened when he saw his hopeful little face. He knew enough about Jawn’s past to hold his temper.

This wasn’t the little boy in trouble anyways.

“It may seem as if I’m being unkind. But following the rules is imperative. They are there to keep you safe.”

“Playing claw machines is unsafe?” Jawn looked completely gob smacked.

“Not staying put can be dangerous. Wandering away can be dangerous.”

“Oh.” Jawn stared ahead, puzzling it all out for himself. “But Sherlock’s big enough, inn’it he?” he asked, looking back up at Mycroft and wrinkling his nose.

“Right now, in stature only” Mycroft sighed. “I managed to walk up behind him without him noticing, after all.”

“Oh," Jawn said again…that was true. But now he thought of another problem; “…You’re not gonna spank him, are you?”

He didn’t quite know how he felt about that. Part of him agreed that the little detective deserved it, and would have done the same…but the other part was reluctant for Mycroft to be doing it.

“That’s going to be between me and Sherlock, Jawn.”

When they reached the front stoop, Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s chest to stop him and told Jawn to wait at the top of the steps. “When we get inside, Sherlock is going to go to his room and wait, and Jawn is going to sit at the table and eat until we join him…does everyone understand?”

Jawn watched Sherlock closely, waiting for his response. He would follow his lead.

The little detective nodded minutely.

“Yes, we understand,” Jawn said.  
  
Mycroft turned and unlocked the door, holding it open. The pair filed in and up the stairs.

Sherlock hung his coat and scarf carefully before walking down the hall to the nursery.

Jawn fought the instinct to follow and instead took the takeaway packages out of the bag and laid the table. Mycroft helped him out of his coat before putting a gentle hand on his shoulder and guiding him into a chair.

“I would never harm Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, retrieving his little brother's stuffed bee, Mr. Bumble, from the sitting room. “Spankings sting and Sherlock is a drama queen.” He handed the stuffed bee to Jawn. “I need you to stay here,  alright.”

Jawn chewed his thumb. “I can try.”

“Good boy…we won’t be long.” Mycroft patted Jawn on the head and quickly made him a sippy-cup before shedding himself of his outer coat, his gloves, and his suit coat. He entered the nursery, and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock was sitting on the side of the bed, hunched over and looking half his actual size while he stared at the floor. He looked up when Mycroft entered, his eyes already glassy and full of worry.

Mycroft stood in front of him, looking down. “Well, it looks like your poor attitude finally caught up with you today.”

Sherlock sniffled and tucked his thumb in his mouth.

“No…you’re going to talk to me, little lad.” Mycroft wasn’t angry. Just very, very fed up. But he wouldn’t shout at an actual two year old, and he was not about to shout at someone who felt like one. “Why are you in trouble, Sherlock?”

“A'cause I was bad,” Sherlock sniffled, mostly to the floor.

“You’ve had some naughty behavior. You are not bad,” Mycroft corrected. “What naughty behavior are you in trouble for?”

“I didn’t stay at the table like you said. But I just wanted to win a prize for Jawn, My.” Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft through his fringe.

“I told you that you could play once we’d finished eating. Do you remember that?”

Sherlock nodded and shrunk into himself even more.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t stay in your seat?”

"...'panking," Sherlock whispered.

“That’s right, a spanking.” Mycroft unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves. “Stand up and let’s get your trousers down.”

Sherlock’s face crumbled while watching him…he never managed to be brave when facing a smacked bottom. A sob bubbled out of his throat and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “B-but I, I d-don’t want one!” he cried.

“I know you don’t.” Mycroft hardened his resolve, but it was _so_  difficult to hear his little brother cry that way. He lifted Sherlock under both arms, since he seemed incapable of standing up on his own. “But this is what happens to little boys who choose not to listen. If you listen to me...listen to Mycroft...then it will all be over soon and you can have your chippies for lunch.”

Mycroft undid Sherlock’s trousers, and then pushed nappy and all down around Sherlock’s thighs.

The little detective now wept openly as Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him over his thighs.

Deciding to get right to the point, Mycroft began to briskly spank Sherlock’s bum.

Sherlock, for his part, howled like he was being electrocuted.

Mycroft’s hand stilled on his brother’s bottom. “Sherlock!!!” he shouted over all the noise. When Sherlock continued to wail, he pinched his thigh.

“Owwwww!” Sherlock whinged reaching back feebly to run at the sting.

“Play acting as if I’m murdering you will only increase the number of swats you’ve earned, William.”

“But it hu-hur-ur-urrrrrts!” Sherlock hiccupped, not even registering the use of his first name.

Mycroft rolled his eyes…he was hardly striking him that hard. He gave a firmer slap to the chubbiest part of Sherlock’s bottom, setting off another string of wailing and blubbering.

Mycroft couldn’t begin to fathom how John dealt with this.

He kept slapping, turning his little brother’s backside from a brighter pink to a dusky red. “Are you going to listen to my instructions next time?” he shouted, only half-expecting an answer.

“Y-yes, yes, p-p’omise, oooooowwwww-uh-huh-huh!!! Ow, My’coff….My’coff, stoooop!!” the poor little detective sobbed, his feet pedaling in the air.

“Yes, yes. All done.” Mycroft rolled his eyes again at the hysterics, but gently helped Sherlock stand up.

The little detective bounced on his heels, howling and desperately trying to rub the sting out of his bottom.

“Let’s get you dressed so we can join Jawn for lunch.” Mycroft tried to pull up Sherlock’s nappy and trousers; "...Sherlock, move your hands.”

“Nooooo, My,"  Sherlock cried, burying his face in Mycroft’s neck.

“Do we really need to discuss obedience so soon after a spanking?” Mycroft gave the baby's as of yet pale thigh a meaningful pat.

Sherlock whimpered pitifully, but removed his hands from his bottom and clenched his fists in Mycroft’s waistcoat instead.

“Good boy.” Mycroft murmured, pulling up Sherlock’s nappy and trousers as gently as he could.

Sherlock followed him docilely into the bathroom, holding his hand tightly. Mycroft wet a flannel and wiped his face, chuckling as Sherlock grumbled and tried to move his face out of reach. Mycroft untangled their hands so he could clean those as well.

“I should have washed Jawn’s hands before I sat him at the table.”

“Is ok. You still can. Jawn didn’t eat yet.”

“Oh? And how did you come by that deduction.”

“He was at the doo…oh! Oh no!! My! Please don’t spank Jawn, My!”

Mycroft frowned as he finished washing Sherlock’s hands. The sniffles that had abated began in full force. “Shhh, don’t start,” he said, reaching into his pocket for Sherlock’s dummy and popping it in the sniffly detective’s mouth with a practiced hand. “You let me take care of Jawn.”  
  
After cleaning him up a bit and letting him compose himself, Mycroft led Sherlock into the kitchen, where a mighty-guilty-looking blond-headed boy sat staring at his food.

Mycroft cleared his throat and grabbed a small, squarish pillow from the couch, then placed it in a chair at the table and had Sherlock sit down on it gingerly. “It’s been brought to my attention that we had a little visitor back there, even after I asked for privacy,” he said, taking Sherlock’s arm and rolling up his sleeve for him.

Sherlock kept large wet eyes trained on Mycroft.

“It’s especially distressing as we discussed why staying put was a safety precaution on the walk home…”

Jawn frowned at his meal, his shoulders tense; "...Had to watch for Sherlock’s safety.”

“That’s not your job at the moment, it’s mine. You’re a little boy and that means your job is to behave and listen.”

Jawn's face scrunched as he considered that. “I tried,” he said simply. “I can’t ignore Sherlock crying.”  
  
“I understand…it is hard,” Mycroft replied, resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s head and combing his fingers through his mussed curls affectionately. “Considering how loud he gets. But I still asked you to remain at the table, and you said you understood. Stand up.”

Sherlock tensed up and was about to protest again, but Mycroft put a finger against his dummy and held it there. “Hush.” He waited until Jawn stood (albeit it slowly) and looked up at him with a determination in his eyes.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Hard-headed, the both of you.” He took Jawn by the elbow and turned him around, facing the back of the kitchen. “Sherlock got a warning and a time-out first, and so will you. Go put your nose in that corner until I call you back,” he said, and sent the stubborn little doctor off with a firm swat to the back of his thigh, since he surely wouldn’t feel it through his nappy.

He watched to be sure Jawn went into time out as instructed before sitting at the table next to Sherlock, then added some vinegar to his own chips before popping one into his mouth. They were barely warm. Rotten kids messing up his lunch.

“Eat your lunch, Sherlock,” he said, popping the dummy out of the baby's mouth.

Sherlock poked at his chips, never taking his eyes from where Jawn stood in the corner.

Mycroft broke off a piece of his own fish and held it to Sherlock’s lips. The little detective obediently ate the piece from Mycroft’s fingers and then held his mouth open for more.

“Well, that’s far more adorable than it has any right to be." Mycroft smiled as he fed Sherlock another bite of fish.  
  
Mycroft was delighted to find that, as long as someone else was putting it in his mouth, Sherlock was content to eat as much of anything that he was fed. “You must be getting thirsty by now,” he chuckled, holding a sippy-cup to his lips. “Ah-ah, no…Sherlock can hold this one.” He noticed Jawn shifting from foot to foot in the corner, and figured that he must be positively itching to turn around and look.

Mycroft consulted his watch…five minutes, even. “Is Jawn ready to come back and sit with us?” he asked out loud.

Jawn looked over his shoulder and nodded emphatically.

Mycroft was in a much better humour now than he had been. “Alright, come on then–”

Jawn had his bum back in his seat before Mycroft could finish his sentence, and the man couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You’re both awful little brats!”

Jawn grinned as he shoveled chips into his mouth.

“Smaller bites please, Jawn,” Mycroft admonished gently, feeding Sherlock another bite.

They ate in companionable silence, Mycroft feeding ever other bite to Sherlock, who built small cottage with his chips.  
  
Jawn finished licking his fingers clean of salt and vinegar, and then wiped them on his trousers. “Can I have some too?”

“I thought you said it was Sherlock who would eat three orders,” Mycroft smirked, holding out the last bite of fish for Jawn.

“He eats all the chips, I eat all the fish.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” Mycroft rose from the table, collecting the rubbish. “We’re going to wash up, and then its naptime.”

Sherlock, who’d started to doze through most of lunch, suddenly jerked awake. “No nap!”  
  
“Yes, nap.” After all the commotion this morning, it would only be a matter of getting Sherlock still, and he’d be out like a light.

Jawn carried over his trash and put it in the bin, while Mycroft turned on the faucet at the sink and squirted soap into his hands for him.

Sherlock refused to get up at first, but it only took one ‘look’ from his brother before he wilted and brought over his trash to throw away, too. He shuffled over like a scolded puppy, rubbing his eyes despite his objection to naptime. “No nap,” he said weakly, standing behind Jawn to wait his turn.

Mycroft smirked and shook his head…the spanking had really done a number on Sherlock’s headspace, regressing him even further. He retrieved his little brother’s dummy from the table; “Yes nap,” he repeated softly, slipping the nipple back between his lips. “And it’s even Sherlock’s turn to pick the story.”

Sherlock yawned around his dummy, and accepted the soap Mycroft squirted on his hands. He stood motionless in front of the sink while his big brother dried Jawn’s hands with a dish towel.

“Can Jawn get me two sippy cups for milk?”

Jawn beamed at Mycroft before scurrying the cabinet.

Mycroft turned eyes onto his baby brother who was standing in front of the sink, eyes closed, dummy barely moving. He gently nudged him forward and used his own hands to lather the soap for Sherlock. “It works better if you don’t allow it to air dry.”

Sherlock grinned around his dummy and leaned into Mycroft.

“I found Sherlock’s pirate cup!” Jawn peeped, holding up a green cup covered in pirates.

“That’s brilliant, Jawn. What cup are you going to use?” Mycroft flipped off the water and began to dry his and Sherlock’s hands.  
  
“Um…” Jawn turned back to the cabinet that held all of their toddler cups and bottles and looked over all of them, tapping his finger on his chin. “This…no, this one!” he said finally and held up an insulated cup with a blue insert, decorated with sea turtles. He was very proud of his choice.

“That’s a very lovely cup,” Mycroft said, taking it from him and going to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator, with Sherlock holding onto the back of his shirt and stumbling after him lazily.

The little detective draped himself over his brother’s back while he filled both cups, laying his head on his shoulder with a sleepy sigh and hugging him around the waist. “Someone’s more of a cuddler now, isn’t he?” Mycroft asked, handing Jawn his cup and trying to turn around without knocking Sherlock on his bum.

“Come along, sweet boy.” Mycroft walked carefully down the hallway to the nursery, Sherlock a limpet on his back.

Jawn trailed behind, humming to himself.

Mycroft put Sherlock’s cup on the nightstand and turned down the bed before carefully extracting himself from the little detective’s grasp.

Sherlock whinged behind his dummy and tried to snuggle closer.

“Poor thing. Let’s get comfy.” Mycroft undid Sherlock’s trousers and pushed them down, then slipped a finger into the leg hole of his nappy and found it dry. “Here. Sit.” He gently pushed Sherlock until he flopped onto the bed.

“Jawn, come here lad. Let’s get you out of those trousers,” Mycroft called, already digging in the cupboard for pajama bottoms. He glanced up to see Jawn frowning at him over his shoulder in the mirror.

“And what’s got you so sour, hm?” Mycroft asked, picking out a pair of blue and green plaid pajama pants.

“His bum’s red,” Jawn replied, still frowning.

“Well, I would imagine so…that’s a common reaction to a good spanking.”

“It’s too red…you spanked too hard.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was Jawn; he was naturally protective of Sherlock. “A red bottom doesn’t stay red forever, lad. Look at Sherlock…does he still look bothered? Does it seem like I overstepped?”

Jawn looked over at the little detective, who was desperately trying to sit up and stay awake, but was fighting a losing battle. “…No,” he finally agreed, sounding rather sulky.

“No, I thought not. Come here now.”

Jawn obeyed, slowly.

Mycroft took that in stride and quickly rid him of his trousers. “I’m pleased that you take such good care of Sherlock," he said, and checked Jawn’s nappy for wetness, getting an indignant squeak from the little doctor. “But the point of being little is so that you don’t have to worry.” Mycroft held open the pajama bottoms for Jawn to step into.

“My baby," Jawn huffed, stepping into the pajamas.

“Yes, yes. I know.” Mycroft pulled the pajamas up and over his bum and gave it a pat. “Would you like to pick a book for Sherlock?”

Jawn nodded emphatically and plopped his bum In front of the bookcase.

Mycroft pulled a pair of grey pajama pants from the cupboard and moved to his little brother, who was making an admirable effort to keep his eyes open. “Lie back," he said, nudging Sherlock until he was laying down and then tugged the pajamas up his slim legs and over his padded bum.  
  
“He always gets like that after a spanking,” Jawn said, climbing onto the bed with a book clutched in one hand. He pushed it towards Mycroft and flopped down next to Sherlock, then pulled the little detective into his arms. “Like he’s got no bones left!”

“ ‘Doesn’t have any’, “ Mycroft corrected absently and picked up the book. “…What’s a ‘Gruffalo’?”

“Read the book and find out.”

“You’re starting to sound like my brother.” Mycroft toed off his shoes and stretched out on Sherlock’s other side, then put his arm around Jawn. Now that he was off his feet, he realized how drained he felt, as well. He opened the book and started to read in a low voice.

“I can’t see the pictures!”

“Shhhh, Jawn…don’t rile him up.” Though, looking down at Sherlock’s face, nothing short of a volcanic eruption could have disturbed him.

“I can’t see the pictures,” Jawn stage whispered, holding a hand over Sherlock’s ear.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but adjusted the book on his lap. Jawn sighed happily and rested a cheek on Sherlock’s head. “I can see now. Keep reading.”

“Please.”

“Yea'. Please keep reading.”

Mycroft read the story slowly, pausing on every page to make sure Jawn got a good look at the pictures before carrying on. By the time he closed the book, both little boys were snoring softly, with Jawn still hugging Sherlock to his chest.

Against his own better judgement, Mycroft scooted down the bed and spooned behind Sherlock, wrapping a protective arm around both little boys.

Within moments, he was in a deep and dreamless sleep. Better than he’d had in years, even.


	5. "Green Mycroft's are not the best Mycroft's," by Mycroft Holmes; Alternatively, "Heh, woooooorms," by Jawn Wa'dson

An hour and a half later (which felt a little bit on the shorter side of an hour and a half), Mycroft found himself being awoken by several small, light touches on his face. He cracked an eye open and was met with a long finger touching the tip of his nose; "…You’re not awake yet.”

Sherlock sat up on his elbow with a wild fringe of hair falling over his eyes. Now that his brother was responding, he giggled and the corners of a big, wide smile came out from hiding behind the edges of his dummy. “Up!”

“No, down,” Mycroft mumbled, pulling Sherlock down onto his chest and holding him there. Just five more minutes, that’s all he was asking for. Just five…

Sherlock grunted and pushed back against the man’s arms with little result, then fell back with an impatient huff and started tapping his fingers on the buttons to Mycroft’s waistcoat.

That was emphatically more tolerable than having his face touched, so Mycroft closed his eye again and prepared to breathe easy for five more minutes...

...It was all of thirty seconds before Sherlock was, once again, straining against his hold. “Up!” he pleaded. “Up, My’coff…up!”

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock’s back absently and began to hum.

The little detective sighed and rested his ear against his brother's chest. A few moments later, the humming became a duet as Jawn joined in.

Sherlock popped up as if he were spring loaded. “Jawn! Jawn, Jawn, Jawn! Up, Jawn, up!” He wiggled to try and get out of Mycroft’s arms and into Jawn's. “My'coff! Jawn!”

“I like that song,” Jawn said, a wistful look on his face. He touched Sherlock’s hair and the little boy settled immediately, blinking huge eyes at his Jawn. “Our Mam used to sing it for me and Harry.”

Mycroft smiled softly at Jawn. “It’s a lovely song. I’m glad we both know it.”

“Up, My?” Sherlock peeped, dropping his dummy onto Mycroft’s chest.

“Yes, fine. Up.” Mycroft released his hold on his baby brother and watched him bolt out of bed. “How shall we spend the rest of our afternoon?” he sighed...if only he still had that sort of energy.  
  
“Can we, um…can we try for ice cream again?”

Mycroft was in the midst of rubbing the sleep from his face, and gave Jawn a look through his fingers.

“We’ll be good this time, swear!”

“Maybe…and that’s a BIG ‘maybe’,” he replied. “You’ll both have to prove that you can behave and listen to me first.” Mycroft sat up on the side of the bed and stretched, making his back pop.

Jawn giggled.

Mycroft swatted behind him without looking and smirked when he connected with something puffy, then heard a yelp. “Let’s go find your Sherlock before he gets into anything, and you both probably need a chan–”

A loud **THUD**  from the kitchen interrupted him, followed by a beat pause, then a cry. Mycroft looked up sharply and hurried out of the nursery to see what had happened.

Jawn skittered after Mycroft down the hall and bumped his nose on the taller man’s back when he stopped abruptly in the doorway of the kitchen.

“What on Earth…”

Jawn pressed himself around Mycroft; he had to get to his baby.

The baby in question was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, his big toe in his mouth. He reached one handedly for Jawn, one large hand supporting his foot.

Jawn immediately dropped onto the floor next to him and snuggled him close. "Lemme see it quick," he said, and tugged gently on Sherlock’s foot. The little boy whinged but allowed Jawn to pull his toe from his mouth and examine it.

“Not broken,” Jawn announced.

Sherlock promptly stuffed his toe back into his mouth.

“No kisses for you until you brush your teeth,” the little doctor teased, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

“What happened in here?”

Sherlock shrank down and looked away, expecting to be scolded or worse…spanked again.

Mycroft crouched down to his level and removed Sherlock’s foot from his mouth (while managing to hide his utter disgust at the thought); “No, that’s icky…what happened?” he asked again.

Sherlock finally met his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip. “Only wanted my cup,” he admitted, barely speaking above a whisper.

Mycroft looked over to the side and there it was…the sippy-cup that he’d filled for naptime and then promptly forgotten about in his hurry to get the little detective into bed before he conked out in the middle of the floor.

It had rolled nearly all the way into the sitting room, and was now dripping milk from it's spout.

Dare he even ask.

Yes, he dared. "...How?" 

"I dro'b it and accidentally kick it at same time."

Mycroft sighed; “Now, this is why you should wait and ask an adult for help when you’re this little…accidents can happen so easily!” He stood and helped both Sherlock, and then Jawn, to their feet. “And you shouldn’t be drinking that anyway, not as long as it's stayed out!”

Sherlock started to worry his bottom lip with his teeth; “…Trouble, My?” he asked, reaching back to clasp his hands over his backside instinctively.

“No trouble,” Mycroft ran a reassuring hand down Sherlock’s back. “But there will be if Sherlock doesn’t ask for help next time.”

“M'kay.” Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"I drank all mines," Jawn announced hopping around them to pick up the dribbling sippy cup. “Yuck!” John exclaimed, holding the cup at arm’s length.

“Yes, the milk has likely soured while we napped. Be a good lad and put them in the sink.” Mycroft started towards the cabinets, with every intention of filling two more cups, when he stopped. "Wait...you said you drank yours?"

Jawn beamed, proud as all get out. "Uh-huh!"

"....Then where's the cup, darling?" 

Jawn paused; "...The cup?"

Dear Lord, this day..."Yes, Jawn--your cup. The one you picked out. With the turtles."

"Ohhhhhh...I dunno."

Mycroft stared at him. "...You don't know."

The little man shrugged.

"Lovely. I imagine you'll be able to sniff that out and solve that mystery once I've  left." Mycroft two fresh cups out of the cupboard and swiftly filled them with milk. Sherlock followed him like a shadow, a hand sneaking up the back of his waist coat.

"Sherlock's right... you're funny when you're mad!"

“Let’s get changed and then we can play a game,” Mycroft said, ignoring Jawn's little announcement and handing each boy a _fresh_  cup.

“No change!” Jawn huffed around the spout of his cup.

Mycroft sighed to himself; so much for that being a distraction. “Alright, if Jawn wants to sit and stink all day, that’s fine...”

Jawn looked surprised, then triumphant, then suspicious. All expressed quite vividly without removing his cup from his mouth.

“But…” Mycroft continued, and Jawn’s brow furrowed even deeper. “Only little boys with dry bums can play the game I have in mind. Wet little babies…like you…would have to sit and watch.”

“I am not!” Jawn shouted.

“Inside voice.” Mycroft reached behind his back and took Sherlock’s hand before the little detective untucked his shirt and wrinkled it beyond decency. “So you’ll agree to be changed?”

Jawn huffed again and plopped down onto the floor with an audible squish, then immediately looked as if he realized that hadn’t been the best idea.

“As you wish.” Mycroft used Sherlock’s hand to guide him down the hall and into the nursery, where he helped his little brother lie down before pulling the nappy bin from beneath the bed.

“Jawn?” The little detective shot long glances at the door.

“Just watch,” Mycroft said as he snapped on a new pair of gloves, causing Sherlock to shiver.  
  
As Mycroft moved to unfasten the first tape, the sound of tiny feet came slapping down the hall, causing a ruckus against the lino.  
  
Jawn stood in the doorway, huffing for breath as if he’d run miles. “I’m not a soggy baby!”

“At the moment that’s exactly what you are," Mycroft said, holding Sherlock’s hips firmly in place as the little detective wiggled in excitement to see his Jawn. “But I should be happy to help.”  
  
Jawn frowned, crossed his arms, and stayed glued to the spot in the doorway.

Mycroft was beginning to grow weary of the small doctor’s stubborn streak. He wasn’t usually this cantankerous, even when he was in his adult mindset. “You know, I’ve already cleaned your bits up once; I don’t know why you’re still locking them down tighter than the Crown Jewels.” He turned back to his little brother and swatted at a still-pink, wriggly bum as a warning; “Be still.”

Sherlock went stiller than a stone and stared up at Mycroft with wide, shocked eyes…eyes that started filling up as the rest of his face crumbled and quaked with what promised to be a massive squall.

“Oh you," Mycroft sighed, "...that was only a little one!”

Sherlock closed his eyes and started to snuffle behind his cup, gearing up for the figurative dam to burst.

“Jawn…Jawn, come talk to Sherlock; see how fast you can get a smile from him.”

Jawn stalked (as best he could in a soaked nappy, mind) across the room. "Quit smacking my baby," he growled as he climbed onto the bed and pulled Sherlock’s head onto his lap.

Mycroft’s eyebrows nearly met his receding hairline.

Jawn’s demeanor changed as he turned his attention to the pitiful sniffling coming from his lap. “Sherlock,” he gasped. “...You caught two new freckles this morning!”

The little detective stared up at him, eyes wide with wonder, hysterics forgotten. “Where?”

“Here,” Jawn pointed to an invisible spot on the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, making the little detective go crossed eyed trying to see his freckle. “And here,” he then traced his finger down Sherlock’s nose and to the top of a high cheekbone. "They are very faint, but I can see ‘em well. What should we name ‘em?”

Mycroft kept one eyebrow raised. ‘Stroppy little piss-gremlin,’ he thought to himself, but as long as Sherlock was giggling and not wailing, he let it slide. He wiped his little brother clean quickly, then powdered and nappied him up before either of the two noticed he was done.

“There,” he said, securing the last tape in place before reaching for Sherlock's hands and helping him sit up. “Sensitive little thing you are, aren’t you?” He placed a small kiss on his forehead and hugged him to his chest, then looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at Jawn. “Your turn, little wee-monster.”

Now that he didn’t have his baby to play with anymore, the switch flipped and Jawn glared at Mycroft. “I’m not very happy with you.”

Mycroft feigned surprise. “Oh, you’re not? However shall I continue through this life without a soggy little baby’s approval?”

Jawn puffed his chest at the insult. “You’re not being nice!”

“Indoor voices, Jawn...I won’t tell you again.”

Jawn stood up on the bed, towering over Mycroft, and jabbed an accusing finger at him. “Stop smacking my baby! I won’t tell you again!” 

“I think we’ve just officially counted out ice cream, don’t you," Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes. “Step down before you fall, Jawn.”

“You! You think you can tell everybody what to do! Tell ‘em what’s what, even if they know different.” Jawn had started to pace the length of the bed, waving his hands emphatically.

“Jawn, you need to get down. I’m going to count to three…one.”

“Stop being mean!”

“Two…”  
  
Mycroft stood Sherlock up and moved him out of the way…he doubted Jawn would stomp on him, accidentally or otherwise, but he wasn’t risking it. “Jawn, this is your last chance. Of course I’m going to tell you ‘what’s what’, I’m the adult. And I’m telling you to get your bum down before you get hurt.”

' _Whether it be on your north or south  end,_ ’ he added silently.

Jawn was on a roll, however. “ **NO** , you are not the boss!” He jumped on the bed to emphasize each word, his hands balled into fists.

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to glare at him. He had no choice; it was time to use the last resort, the ultimate weapon. He looked down at Sherlock, who was holding him tightly around the waist and hiding his face against his big brother’s arm; “...You’re scaring the baby.”

Jawn froze mid jump, which caused him to land his squishy bum on the bed. "He throws bigger wobblers than me, though,” he scoffed, trying to get back on his feet.

“Perhaps, but the one _you_ are throwing now is frightening him.” Mycroft gestured at Sherlock, who was still huddled behind him.

Jawn stopped and craned his neck to peer around Mycroft. “...Sherlock?” he called softly.

Sherlock peeked around Mycroft’s arm, eyes wet, lower lip wobbly.

“Don’t be scared." Jawn scooted his bum off the bed and stood awkwardly shuffling his feet. It was clear he wanted to hold the little detective, but didn’t want to force it. “My'coff was being mean. I didn’t mean to be scary. I just wanted him to be gentler with you.”  
  
“No shouting,” Sherlock whimpered.

“No more shouting,” Mycroft agreed. “And Jawn’s not being very nice himself.”

Jawn refused to look at the man. “You didn’t have to spank him again, is’all,” he mumbled.

“I very lightly swatted his bum to get his attention and keep him from squirming right off the bed.” Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock, letting his hand rest on hip and rubbing it. “Hurt your feelings more than it did your bum, didn’t it?”

The little detective looked sheepish, but nodded.

“Still should’na done it.”

“Jawn, we've had this discussion…I am the one in charge. You and Sherlock are only little. What exactly is it going to take for you to realize I’m not a bully?”

Jawn scrunched his face in concentration, his thumb firmly wedged between teeth.

“I’m willing to bribe you, you know,” Mycroft said amicably, slowly reaching out to take Jawn's hand and gently tug him over and onto the bed while he was busy “thinking”.

Jawn squinted at him in disbelief.

"...Will ice cream convince you?” Mycroft stripped Jawn of his sodden nappy efficiently, causing the little doctor to squeak.

Jawn tried to wiggle out of the man's reach, only to receive the same swat on his bottom that Sherlock had received. “Settle down, Jawn.”

Jawn stared at him with doe eyes. The swat hadn’t hurt, not really...but it had been surprising, and suddenly he could feel his own eyes watering.

“Oh God," Mycroft groaned quietly. "Not again."

Jawn blinked rapidly to clear his eyes; “I’m n-not,” he said, his voice shaky.

“No, you’re still a tough little soldier, aren’t you?” Mycroft cleaned Jawn up thoroughly, getting all the little nooks and crannies as he’d been well and truly soaked to the point of almost leaking.

“C-cap, Captain,” Jawn corrected.

Mycroft had to chuckle. “Of course, Captain…my sincerest apologies.”

The little Captain went quiet for a moment; “…Did you mean it?”

Mycroft coated him down in a cloud of powder. “Mean what?”

“Ice cream?” Jawn peered up at him hopefully…hopeful about getting his ice cream, and hopeful that he could pull off ‘cute’ in the same way that Sherlock could to help him out.

“A’ sp’inkles!” Sherlock peeped behind his dummy.

“If ice cream and sprinkles…”

“A’ ‘hip c’eme!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Which of you am I bribing again?”

Jawnn giggled, and barely, sorta'-almost-not-at-all noticed when Mycroft closed the front of his nappy and taped it shut. “I love sprinkles.”

“Sp’inkles,” Sherlock agreed.

"Ahh, so he’s being helpful and not a bit manipulative, then?"

Jawn wrinkled his nose; "What kind of ice cream.”

"Choc’ate.”

"What flavour would Jawn like?” Mycroft helped him up, and held him in a loose embrace.

“Mint!”

Sherlock made a gagging noise behind his dummy.

“Oh hush, you…Mummy used to have to hide any mints she had in the house, or you’d sit and eat the whole tin in one go," Mycroft said, rubbing Jawn’s back and kissing the top of his head before ruffling his hair. “BUT, before we go, I need a promise from the both of you.”

The boys shared a quick glance before peering back up at the man curiously. “…What kind of promise?” Jawn asked, craning his head back.

“The promise that this trip out won’t end like the last one. I need both of you to listen and OBEY me this time, or I’m not waiting to get back to the flat to turn a bum over my knee again.”

Two pairs of still-shiny eyes widened at the idea of such a thing. “We’ll listen, swear!” Jawn said quickly.

“P’omi’the!” Sherlock added, shaking his head and making his curls bounce.

"I’m going to hold you both to that. Now, let’s get you both dressed, unless you want to go out in just your nappies…DON’T RUN!” he called out, but the two oversized toddlers were halfway back to the bedroom, giggling and trying to trip each other up in order to be first.

Sherlock wriggled into his trousers and then fiddled with his fly. “My, halp!”

Mycroft gently moved Sherlock’s less than dexterous fingers out of the way and closed the front of his trousers. “Buttons can be tricky.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement before taking off down the hall to find his shoes.

Mycroft looked down at the other one; “Jawn, aren’t you going to wear trousers, lad?”

The little doctor looked up from his spot on the floor. He’d gotten his lace ups on the correct feet and mostly tied. "G'een," he mumbled around the dummy that had been in Sherlock’s mouth moments ago.

“Yes, Jawn; your green trousers. Where are they?”

Jawn pointed at a pile of rumpled green cloth across the floor.

“Do you want to wear those ones or different ones?”

“G'een.”

“Are your head spaces always this inconsistent?” Mycroft asked, helping him off the floor...not even ten minutes had passed since this one had been shouting at him, and now...  
  
“Huh?” Jawn asked, wrinkling his forehead.

“Nothing, never mind…go get your trousers, and I’ll help you into them.” Mycroft sat on the side of the bed as he watched Jawn pick up the horribly wrinkled garment, and wondered to himself if it was really a good idea to take them out while they were this…tiny. They could cause an even bigger scene, in an even more crowded place than some hole-in-the-wall chip shop…but on the other hand, it might take less effort to make them obedient.

His thoughts were interrupted by a wad of bunched-up fabric being shoved under his nose. Mycroft cleared his throat; “Well done, Jawn…very good job using your listening ears.” He held the trousers up and made a slight face; “Are you sure this is what you want to wear?”

“G’een!” Jawn said, nodding and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Jawn really likes green, hmm? Is that why he wants mint ice cream?” Mycroft shook them out as best he could, but there were still horrid-looking creases in them...he sighed and held them down for the smaller man to step into, anyway.

Jawn beamed, meaning Mycroft guessed right. “Ah-huh!”

Mycroft chuckled; “You’re cuter this way…I should have bribed you sooner. Did Sherlock find his shoes yet?” he called out. “I’d hate to leave without him!”

Sherlock hopped into the room, shoe on only one foot; the other shoes dangling by his knees. “Im'ma flamingo! Know why? Ask me why?!”

“Put your shoe on, Sherlock.” Mycroft pulled the little detective onto his lap.

“Why, Sh'lock? Why?” Jawn slurred behind his dummy, pressing his face next to Sherlock’s.

“I was on one foot, and eating shrimps makes me turn pink too!” he giggled, leaning back into Jawn and almost toppling out of Mycroft’s lap.

“Careful!”

Sherlock twisted on Mycroft’s lap. “My'coff eat ice cream too?”

Mycroft scooted the little boy off his lap. “Perhaps. Though teasing will end in tears," he said with an imperious sniff.

“Choc'ate?”

“Mint!”

“We’ll see. Let’s get coats on and see what flavours they have.”

“No mint?” Jawn asked, wide eyed over his shoulder as he toddled down the hall.

“We’ll see.”  
  
“But what does that mean?!” Sherlock whinged, hopping along behind Mycroft and putting his hands on his big brother’s shoulders like a game of leap-frog.

“SherlockifyoujumponmeI’lldropyoulikeahotstone.” Mycroft pulled the hyper man in front of him to prevent just that, and tried to wrangle him into his blasted coat. “And ‘we’ll see’ means exactly that; we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Thought you knew everything,” Sherlock pouted, then tried to brush Mycroft’s fingers away. “I can do that part!” he announced, wanting to prove that he could indeed do his own buttons after failing with his trousers.

“We’re not buttoning it; you’ll melt.”

The little detective’s eyes widened comically; “I will?” he whispered with a muted reverence…almost as if he weren’t horrified at the idea, but excited about experimenting to see if it were possible.

“Like sugar in the rain.” Mycroft fixed the younger man’s collar so that it wouldn’t stick up in that ridiculous manner. “Is Jawn ready?”

“Uh-huh!”

Mycroft turned to look and had to resist the urge to put his face in his hands. “Oh, for Gods’sake.”

Jawn had on Mycroft’s coat and was struggling to close Mycroft’s umbrella, but the sleeves were too long and giving him trouble.

“Jawn didn’t do the buttons right.” Sherlock moved around his brother to help him re-button the coat. “Buttons are tricky, Jawn.”

Mycroft took the umbrella from the little boy who promptly twisted away from Sherlock and reached for it. "Mine!”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, closing the umbrella and setting it behind him in one fluid motion. “Captain Jawn needs his own coat on if he’d like to join us for ice cream.”

Jawn frowned mutinously behind his dummy for a moment before stripping off Mycroft’s coat and handing it to him.

Sherlock then helped him into his coat, while Mycroft put on his own. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of baby powder and milk in the lining.

“I wan’," Jawn said, reaching for the umbrella.

“I’ll trade you your dummy for it.”  
  
These were intense negotiations. Jawn put his hand over the dummy in his mouth, thinking. “Wan’ bo’ff.”

Mycroft shook his head; “No, you can’t have both…it’s one or the other.” There was no chance he was letting them leave the flat with that thing in his mouth, but he let Jawn have the illusion of choice…for now.

“He never lets anyone hold it,” Sherlock whispered in Jawn’s ear. “No one but ‘Thea, an’ she’s special.”

Special, huh? Jawn was a little more intrigued. “I hold?…”

“Unless you strike someone with it, you can hold it the entire time…and no more opening it indoors; it could tear, and I would be very, very upset.”

Jawn eyed the umbrella and sucked on the dummy as he weighed his options, then finally spat it into his hand and held it out. “‘Kay, trade.”

“How are you supposed to ask?”

“P’ease?” Jawn asked sweetly, and beamed as Mycroft put the umbrella into his hand and took the wet soother with two fingers.

Sherlock watched with unbridled envy; “I never get to hold it!”

“Perhaps you can carry it on the way home.” Mycroft wrapped the dummy in a handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“Mine!” The little doctor curled himself around the umbrella so it couldn’t be taken from him.

“...Or another time.” Mycroft linked his fingers with Sherlock’s, giving them a gentle squeeze. “What kind of sprinkles do you prefer?” He guided them down the stairs and out the front door.

“Choc'ate,” Sherlock mumbled, distracted by Jawn hopping down the stairs with the umbrella over his shoulder.

“I thought they were just brown. Do they actually taste like chocolate?”

Sherlock gave him an affronted look. “A'course! Is choc'ate flavour.”

Mycroft nodded and checked over his shoulder to make sure the little doctor was close. “Jawn, you are not Gene Kelly; keep up.”

“Im'ma better dancer than Jawn.”  
  
“I know you are.”

“Are not!”

“Are too! I even tried’a show you!”

“Boys.”

“You didn’ do a better job!”

“Ah-HUH! I did so–!”

“I suppose no one wants ice cream anymore?”

  
Things quieted down instantly, and for a few precious minutes, Mycroft was actually enjoying the quiet stroll with his little brother, with Jawn trailing behind.

Suddenly, Sherlock whipped his head around; “ _Stooooooooooooop_!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Jawn poking me!”

Mycroft felt the corner of his mouth twitch; no, he couldn’t say THAT. “…And that’s anything new?”

Well, he’d tried.

“MY!”

Mycroft sighed…”Jawn, one more time, and I’m taking it away.”

“Mine.”

“Not if you can’t behave.” Mycroft tugged on the little doctors coat sleeve until he was in front of them. “Since I need to keep an eye on you.”

“I didn’t mean'a poke him," Jawn huffed, walking more heavily than was strictly necessary.

“Attitude, Jawn.”

Sherlock looked especially smug. “I can have cherries on my whip creme.”

“Me too!” Jawn nearly tripped over himself to get back the two steps to Sherlock, strop forgotten.  
  
“‘Member that one time Nana maked ice cream with worms!”

“Yeah!”

Mycroft was naturally dubious. “Nana fed you worms?”

“G'een worms are the best worms.”

“Maybe they can make worm sundaes.”

Mycroft felt himself turn a little green. Green Mycroft’s are not the best Mycroft’s.  
  
Sherlock turned to Mycroft to ask him what kinds of worms he thought were the best and was surprised to see all the colour drained from his face….then he started giggling. “NO, My!...they’s candy!” he hooted.

Mycroft felt a rush of relief, but it was short-lived as Jawn joined in with Sherlock’s cackling and ribbing. “Worms are foul,” he sniffed. “Even if they’re are candy ones.”

“You thought real worms!” Jawn crowed, pulling faces.

“Gross!” Sherlock added.

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft agreed. “And that’s why we’re going to change the subject, NOW.”

A Cheshire cat-esque smile split Jawn’s face. “My’coff gonna be sick? Don’t like worms? Squiggly, wiggly worms?”

“Jawn.”

“Wiggly worms in mou’f? Wiggle down into tummy?”

Mycroft felt that ‘green’ feeling lurch against his guts. “Jawn, I said no more.”

“Wiggly worms in–!”

“Let’s talk about Jawn’s padded bum, hmm?”

Jawn’s mouth hung open before snapping closed with an audible click of his teeth. “I don’t want this anymore," he said, shoving the umbrella into Sherlock’s hands before turning on his heels and walking away.

“Jawn Hamish, get your bottom back here.”

Jawn’s shoulders shot up around his ears at the use of his middle name. Mycroft softened his approach, “Come on now, lad. You can tease me but I can’t tease you?”

Jawn glanced over his shoulder, his little face scrunched to keep from crying.

“...I may have over stepped. I apologize. Can you forgive me?”

Jawn nodded quickly and collided with Mycroft, wrapping short arms around his waist.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Jawn’s shoulders simultaneously. “There,” he said, lightly patting his back, “Let’s make a pact to stop teasing each other the first time one asks, yes? Good plan?”  
  
Jawn nodded, his face hidden against the taller man’s chest.

Mycroft chuckled…the pair was certainly a handful, but they were an adorable handful. “…It’s an awfully cute padded bum, though, you have to admit.”

Jawn’s head snapped up, stricken. “You can really see…?!”

“Only because I know it’s already there.” Mycroft was quick to assure him. “No one else would think to look twice.”

A little of the tension left Jawn’s shoulders, and they sagged with relief. But as soon as he seemed to be settling, the little Captain puffed up again; “Why do you think no one would look twice at my bum?”

“Oh, for…!” Mycroft turned Jawn around and got the group moving again. “I’ll look at your bum all you want when it’s over my knee later, you little brat.”

Jawn giggled and stuck out his tongue. “I wan’ the umbrella back.”

“No, you willingly gave it up; it’s Sherlock’s turn.”

Sherlock held the umbrella out as if he was leading an orchestra. “My turn.”

“I can have my dummy then?” Jawn peeped over his shoulder, surreptitiously glancing down at his own bum.

Mycroft smirked. While it was true no one would know what they were looking at, Jawn’s ‘g'een’ trousers did little disguise his nappy. "No dummies outside the flat.”

“But, but, but…” Jawn turned to face Mycroft to voice his rebuttal and stumbled.

Mycroft deftly hooked his elbow through Jasn’s and pulled the little doctor into his side.

“I traded the ‘brella for my dummy,” Jawn pouted, tugging at Mycroft’s elbow, trying to get away.

“Yes, and then you gave the umbrella to Sherlock.”

“I don’t have the ‘brella, so I can have my dummy.”

“My dummy.”

“Is not!”

“Yes huh!” Sherlock pointed the umbrella menacingly at Jawn.

Mycroft pushed the point of the umbrella down. “I’m going to be taking MY umbrella back, if neither of you can treat it properly…and you can have your dummy back later, not now.”

“Why not?” Jawn gave up trying to break free from the man’s surprisingly strong grip and cuddled close, looking up at Mycroft with woeful puppy-dog eyes and sticking out his bottom lip.

“Because.”

“A’cause why, My?”

”Because…” Mycroft mentally sprinted to find a reason that didn’t include ‘because people would stare, and if you’re that worried about your nappy showing, why would you want your dummy?’…now was not the time to be so biting. “If you had your dummy in your mouth, how would you be able to eat your ice cream?”

Jawn’s eyes widened, as if Mycroft had just bestowed the answer to life, love, and the universe unto him. “Ohhh….tha’ssa good reason,” he said, awed.

Mycroft was feeling pleased with himself, until a certain you-know-who had to chime in with a derisive snort; “You can take dummies out, Jawn.”

Mycroft leveled Sherlock his best rage sniff but the little detective was oblivious. He twisted the handle of the umbrella viciously. "Why won’t the sword come out, My?”

“Sword?” Jawn rubbed his face on Mycroft’s sleeve.

“It’s just an umbrella.” Mycroft scoffed, snatching the umbrella from his baby brother. “And if you break it, I’ll break your bottom.”

“My! I wan’ it!” The little detective made grabby hands.

Mycroft hooked the umbrella over his elbow and then took both Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Hush.”

Sherlock pouted but obeyed, dragging his feet as he walked.

“Why come you have a sword?” Jawn asked, staring up at Mycroft in awe.

“Cause he’s really a Bond villain."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. They were only a block away. Keep them moving.

“Really?”  
  
“Not really.”

“Yes really! My’s the best bad guy!”

“Why’s he the best?”

“Cause he hasn’t been caught yet, duh!”

“Sherlock, no need to be rude about it…you both need to use kinder words with each other.” Mycroft held them close to each side, no longer caring how the trio might look to passersby and wishing he hadn’t already said ‘no’ to giving the dummy back. ‘Just get them to the parlour…just get them to the parlour…’

“Says you!” Sherlock put his free hand on his hip, indignant.

“So it’s true?!” Jawn’s eyes were nearly popping out of his skull.

“What? No, when did I say that?”

“You didn’ say it wasn’, you jus’ said for Sherlock not to be rude ‘bout it! Does it have smoke bombs?!” Jawn reached for the umbrella.

“It is just an umbrella.”

“Maybe it has a poisonous dart gun!” Sherlock clapped hands, delighted.

“Tree f'wog poison! Is f'wogs bad like worms, My?”

“You are both going to be very disappointed when you finally realize…”

“It’s like Batman’s belt?! Of course!” Sherlock crowed, trying to get it off Mycroft’s arm.

Jawn gaped at the umbrella. “Sherlock, like Mary Poppins bag!”

“‘Zactly, Jawn.”

“Oh look! We’re here! Thank the bloody lord!!!” Mycroft practically shoving both little boys in the door of the ice cream parlour.

“You each get to pick one flavour for one cone,” he reminded them as they tumbled over each other to get to the big glass display case at the counter.

“Why just one?!”

“Can I have it in a cup instead?!”

Mycroft took a slow, deep breath…this had been his idea in the first place, after all. “Because I said so, and yes, Sherlock, you can have it in a cup instead. Actually, that’s a better idea…you’re both getting cups.”

“Awwww! But I like the cones!”

“You get more ice cream when you get it in a cup, Jawn.”

“…I want a cup.”

“That’s what I thought.” Mycroft stood with them, looking at the different tubs of ice cream and quietly deciding on his own. A youngish woman, probably late 20′s, came over and gave them a commercially-bright smile. “How can I help you gentlemen today?”

“Tell her what you wanted, Jawn.”

Jawn said nothing…he only hooked his arm back through Mycroft’s and pressed himself close to his side, while looking sheepish.

Mycroft gave the little doctor a squeeze. “Why don’t you go first, Sherlock.”

“I wan’ choc’ate ice cream, choc’ate sprinkles, choc’ate syrup, whip creme, cherries…”

“Sherlock.”

“And gummy worms. Thank you." Sherlock gave the girl behind the counter one of his best sham smiles.

Mycroft sighed; he’d said one scoop of ice cream each...but he hadn’t thought to limit toppings. “In a cup please.”

“Do you have choc’ate spoons?”

“Sherlock. Why don’t you find us a table?”

Sherlock nodded seriously and went to find them the perfect table, inspecting each carefully before moving on to the next.

“What would you like Jawn?”

The little doctor craned his neck to peek into the display case, unwilling to leave the comfort of Mycroft’s side. “Mint?”

“We don’t have plain mint. We have mint chocolate chip though.” The young woman offered. If she was alarmed by their odd behavior, she kept it to herself.  
“Would mint chocolate chip be alright?”

Jawn nodded, rubbing his cheek against Mycroft’s sleeve. “Uh-huh, and um, can I…can I have the same stuff Sherlock got?”

“My God, you’re both going to be bellyaching at me all afternoon…yes, you can. What do you say? “

Jawn clutched his sleeve tighter and mumbled a quick “P’easeandthankyou,” before Mycroft took pity on him and shooed him over to the table with Sherlock so he could make his order and pay. He ordered himself a small cup of the Rose ice cream, and asked the woman to include “any and all extra napkins you can spare.”

“A fun day had by all, hmm?” she asked with a knowing angle to her smile as she rang them up and started scooping ice cream and toppings into their cups.

“You have no idea.”

Mycroft carried the two overflowing single scoops of ice cream turned sundaes to the table.

“I’ve done the research, Jawn. Choc'ate is empirically the best flavour.”

Jawn, chin on his fist, blinked owlishly at Sherlock. “Is not g'een, so it’s not the best.”

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft smiled brightly as two eager little boys turned in his direction, both practically bouncing in their seats. “Napkins before ice cream.”

Sherlock groaned; “We can feed our selfs, My'coff.” But he obediently took a napkin and tucked it into Jawn’s collar before donning one himself.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. He’d yet to see Sherlock actually feed himself. But in the interest of peace, he carried on. "Enjoy.” He slide the sundaes in front of them and lamented not being able to take a picture of their star struck faces. The clerk had gone overboard on the toppings.

Though it was against his better judgement, Mycroft returned to the counter to get his lone cup of rose with toffee bits and realized that the young woman had been watching them while pretending not to be, and failing. She handed him his cup and, looking over his shoulder, grinned.

He didn’t offer an explanation because, quite frankly, he didn’t need to. He arched his eyebrow, then walked back to the table to find the boys picking at their toppings and arguing about who got more of what, though they looked pretty even to him. “You got more sprinkles!” Sherlock whinged, wrinkling his nose at Jawn.

“Nuh-uh, those are the chips that were already in it!”

“Must you two turn everything into a competition?”

Sherlock turned to him with a snippy comment right on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly turned into a smirk, followed with giggles. “Jawn Jawn Jawn, lookit!” he said, nudging Jawn with his elbow. “My’coffs got pink!”

“Oh! So pretty!” Jawn cooed.

“Thank you, Jawn," Mycroft said, with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock made a face and went back to counting his sprinkles.

“Wha’ flavour is it?” Jawn said around a mouthful of ice cream.

“It’s rose flavour.” Mycroft took a dainty bite, steadfastly ignoring the fact that Jawn was talking with his mouth full.

“Fwowers?”

“Yes, like the flowers.”

“Rabbit food," Sherlock whispered into his own ice cream that he was stirring into a soup.

“Can I try some? You can try mines.” Jawn hastily plucked a gummy worm off of a spoonful of green ice cream before offering it to Mycroft.

“You can have a bite, yes, but I’m not having that one.”

“Oh. Cause’da worm?”

“Yes, because of the…worm,” Mycroft said tightly. “Sherlock, you asked for it, please eat it.”

“Is too sweet,” Sherlock grumbled, holding up his spoon and watching the syrup drip from it.

“I’m sure it’s very sweet.” Mycroft got a small spoonful of his ice cream and held it up to Jawn’s lips. “But I’ve seen you tuck away a whole jar of that marshmallow gunk without batting an eyelid. What’s put you off, hmm?”

Sherlock picked up a gummy worm, put it in his mouth, and loudly slurped it down and chewed while looking Mycroft directly in the eye.

While Mycroft was busy scowling at Sherlock, Jawn helped himself to another spoonful of Mycroft’s ice cream, leaving behind a trail of green whipped cream.  
“This is da'licious. Next time I wan’ fwowers too.”

Sherlock broke eye contact first, turning back to the porridge he’d made of his ice cream. “Can I try it too?” he asked, barely loud enough to hear.

“Of course,” Mycroft put a hand on the little detective knee. “Jawn, keep your spoon in your own cup,” Mycroft said, gently smacking the back of Jawn’s hand as it made its way into his cup for the second time.

Mycroft scooped a bite of ice cream onto his spoon and offered it to Sherlock, who ate it quietly before opening his mouth for another bite.

Mycroft bit his lip. As precious as that was, they were in public. And while their behavior had been odd, it had been within normal limits. Mycroft really didn’t relish the idea of getting an ASBO for…whatever this was.

He spooned one more bite into Sherlock’s mouth, then cleared his throat. “You’ve both had two bites, now eat your own.”

Sherlock looked down at his cup full of…well, it was more chocolate soup now than ice cream. He picked out another worm with his fingers. “Is’all melted.”

“That’s what happens when you stir it,” Mycroft said, finally taking the first bite of his own treat. “Try it again, it’s even better this way; it won’t freeze your teeth now.”

Sherlock laid the worm on the edge of his cup, then stared at his spoon. “…You do it?” he asked innocently, and Mycroft had a difficult time saying ‘no’.

He shook his head; “No, not here, lad. Sherlock needs to be a big boy and do it himself this time.”

Sherlock looked down and pouted, but didn’t argue. Because if he argued, he knew he’d get upset. And if he got upset, he knew he’d cry. And he didn’t want to cry. At least not here, in front of people. He went to pick up his spoon and at least make an attempt at finishing the rest of the sugary muck, but he noticed a smudge of chocolate on his thumb from the worm he’d picked up, and went to lick it off.

That…was a mistake. Because now that his thumb was in his mouth…he didn’t want to take it out.

Mycroft gently pulled Sherlock’s thumb out of his mouth and held his hand below the table. “Jawn. Are you almost finished with your ice cream, lad?”

Jawn put down his cup guiltily, the ring of chocolate around his mouth showing where he’d tried to lick the cup clean. "Yea'. Is all gone. Can we have more?”

“Perhaps another day. I think we should take Sherlock home.”

Jawn chewed his lip as he took in Sherlock’s sniffly face. “In trouble?”

“No, no ones in trouble. Can you help me dispose of the rubbish?”

Jawn hopped up and collected the cups, snagging a forgotten worm from Sherlock’s cup before tossing them in the bin.

Despite a strong desire to clean them up himself, Mycroft handed each boy a wet nap; "Wash your hands, and Jawn, you’ve a chocolate mustache to remove.”

Sherlock held the wet nap between two fingers, tears welling in his eyes.

‘ _Oh, dear_ …’ Mycroft saw that trying to get Sherlock to do anything for himself right now was utterly useless. Oh, well…if the woman at the counter was still watching, she’d already seen enough, including Sherlock sucking his thumb, so what did it matter anymore? He took the wet nap and wiped Sherlock’s face and hands, trying to sooth him in a low voice the entire time. “Shhhh, what’s all this, hm? What’s the matter…is it because your ice cream melted too fast?”

Sherlock shook his head ‘no’, and his bottom lip began to tremble.

Mycroft had to get him appeased somehow; little things like hand-holding and spoon-feeding could be easily missed among a crowd who wasn’t paying attention…a six foot man bawling and blubbering at the top of his lungs couldn’t. “Is it because I told you to do it yourself? Sherlock, I promise, I swear, that if you can just wait until we get home, I’ll hold you all afternoon if you wish it!”

“Y-you, you m-mean it?” Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding strained, and Mycroft could practically feel that awful throat-clenching sensation one gets before a big cry for him.

“Shh-sh-sh, of course I mean it, I promised didn’t I? Just hold off until we get home, it won’t be long!” Mycroft looked around for Jawn, trying not to appear as desperate as he felt. “Jawn, are you ready?”

“Ready!”

Mycroft frowned at the smudges of chocolate still around Jawn’s mouth. “For pity’s sake,” he huffed as he used another wet nap to clean his face.

“Maybe Sherlock should hold the ‘brella. He’ll feel big if he’s carrying a sword.” Jawn tried to move his face away from Mycroft’s insistent washing.

It didn’t seem worth it to correct Jawn, again. And if a sword would stem the water works…“Would you like to carry the umbrella, Sherlock?”

In the moment of inattention, Sherlock’s thumb had made its way back into his mouth. He shook his head sadly and tried to bury himself into his big brothers side.

Mycroft took his thumb from his mouth and threaded their fingers together.  
“Jawn can carry the umbrella, then. Let’s get you two home before the flood gates open.”

Jawn chirped in delight, taking up the ‘sword’ like a swashbuckler. “I’m mean g'een long Jawns!” he shouted as he rocketed out the door, making the swishing sound effects for his sword as he did battle with an invisible foe.

“We can make it six blocks; we’ll be fine.” Mycroft said, feigning confidence he didn’t have.


	6. "You guys don' fi'de fair!" By Jawn Wad'son; alternaively "What Did I Get Myself Into", by Mycroft Holmes

“Mister Big Mean Jawn Green needs to stay with the rest of his crew, still!” Mycroft said as he ushered Sherlock through the door, while the little detective made increasingly frustrated grunts and tried to unhook his fingers from Mycroft’s grip. “No, little boys like you have to hold hands while we’re outside.”

“Bu’d I–!”

“I know you want your thumb, but we can’t do that right now…”

“You’re wrong, it’s Mean G’een Long Jawns!”

“I know; I heard you the first time, lad.” Mycroft felt Sherlock’s legs start to buckle and grasped his elbow to keep him from having a full-blown meltdown right on the sidewalk.

They were much too little to have taken out like this, but it was far too late to do anything about it but get them back home safe and (somewhat) sound.

“But you got it wrong!” Jawn held the umbrella out and thrust it at them in what Mycroft would have noted as a brilliant fencing move under any other circumstances.

“I did, you’re right, I did,” he replied absently as he pulled Sherlock close and all but picked him up. “Sherlock, listen…Sherlock, listen to Myc…I have your dummy in my pocket, remember?"

When all else fails…bribery.

Sherlock stopped sinking to his knees and went still; “Dummy?” he repeated, blinking up at Mycroft with eyes full of unshed tears.

"Yes, that’s right, dummy…and you know what? If you can walk all the way to Baker Street without throwing a fit, I’ll give him back. Can you do that?”

“D-do it,” Sherlock nodded, trying hard to compose his face and failing. 

Mycroft appreciated the effort but walked double time down the sidewalk. The less time they were out, the better.

“Big Mean Jawn Green does sound pretty good though. Can I change my pirate name?” Jawn asked, nearly jogging to keep up.

“Of course you can. Pirates can do whatever they want.” Mycroft impatiently pressed the button to make the light change, the little detective leaning against him was heavy and still on the verge of weeping.

“Whatever I want?” Jawn asked in awe. He didn’t get to do whatever he wanted even when he was big. “Then I’m going to the toy shop!” Jawn turned the corner, headed in the opposite direction of home. A hand on his collar pulled him up short.

“No. We are going home.”

“Bu’ you said pirates do whatever they wan’!” Jawn’s voice far louder than it should be.

“Shhh! Little boy pirates need to do as their captain commands.”

“I’m the captain!”

"Well, a captain doesn’t abandon his ship and crew when they need him!”

Jawn stopped trying to yank out of Mycroft’s grip, and let the man pull him back to him. “They don’t?”

“No, they don’t…every crew needs a captain." Mycroft kept his eye glued to the signal across the street, silently calling it every name in the book while willing it to change. He kept his arm around Sherlock’s waist, underneath his coat, and alternated between patting and rubbing the small of his back.

“Need him? For what?”

“Lots of things…” A lightbulb went off in Mycroft’s head; "…like we need Captain Jawn Green to lead us home!”

Jawn wrinkled his forehead, dubious. “You don’t know it?”

“I’ve completely forgotten where it is.” The light chose that moment to change into the ‘walk now’ signal. “Look, is that a star? Does it mean that’s the right way?”

For a moment it appeared as if Jawn was going to tell Mycroft off. Just because he was little, didn’t mean he was dumb...but an especially loud sniffle from Sherlock caught his attention.

“This way men! We’re 40 leagues from shore!” Jawn turned and marched across the street, heading for Baker Street.

“Thank goodness we have such a brave and smart Captain to lead the way.”

Jawn glowed under the praise, his chin tipped higher than could rightly be comfortable.

He narrated their entire journey. “Only one more league, gentlemen. But keep a wary eye on the horizon, these be shark infested waters.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and terrified. “S'arks?”

"Yes, big ones, much bigger than our boat, with millions of teeths!” Jawn added, oblivious to Sherlock’s distress.

“S'arks gunna eat me!” Sherlock whispered, shaking like a leaf.

 _'Good Lord,'_ Mycroft thought as he hoped he didn’t have to pick him up and carry him. “No, they won’t,” he said, trying to coax Sherlock along.

“Bu’d Jawn said–!”

“Captain Jawn!” The esteemed Captain wasn’t going to let his title go so quickly, especially not while he was on duty.

“Don’t yell at the baby. The only sharks here–” Mycroft took his gaze away from the conductor of their little parade just in time to see the last bit of composure on Sherlock’s face to collapse, and the first tear slide down his cheek. ‘ _Damn._ ’ He fished around in his suit pocket; they were still two blocks away from home, but things had become just a tad more complicated now.

“The only sharks here are what?” Jawn called back, turning around to see why his crew had suddenly fallen behind.

“Are vegetarian,” Mycroft added dryly as he popped Sherlock’s dummy into his mouth and put a comforting arm around his shoulders to shield him from as many prying eyes as he could. “So we have nothing to worry about.”

“Sharks are not b'egatarians, My'coff," Jawn sniffed.

Mycroft scowled at him in turn; “Not actually helpful, Captain.” He pulled the little detective along, wishing in vain he hadn’t given Anthea the afternoon off. This would be so much easier if they could call for a car.

Mycroft and Sherlock passed up the little captain and he trotted along behind them.

“Baby seasick?”

“Not exactly. He’ll feel better once we’re in the flat. He’ll have a good cry. And then we’ll have juice and a snuggle.”

“Me too?”

“Do you feel the need to have a cry?”

“No. But I like juice.”

“Alright then, you can have juice and a snuggle as well.”

“Why's he got my dummy?”

They turned onto Baker Street, the stoop for 221B looking for all the world like a life raft. Sherlock sagged even further into Mycroft, barely lifting his feet.

“Bugger all,” Mycroft huffed as he turned and scooped the little detective up onto his hip.

Despite being fed up by John, Sherlock was still alarmingly light.

“My'coff, make him give me my dummy!"

“We’ll find you one once we get inside.”

"But I want that one! It’s got the bear on it and it’s mine!”

“Jawn, please…let him borrow it, just for now.” Mycroft could hear Sherlock crying quietly and sniffling near his ear, while trying to watch where he was stepping as best he could with his little brother’s shoulder blocked 40% of his view.

“But he’s got loads inside!” Jawn kicked the bottom step.

“Then being outside doesn’t help us right now, does it?” Mycroft tried to reach the doorknob, but having both hands full of a clingy little detective made that quite impossible. And he didn’t really want to find out what would happen if he tried putting him down first. "Can the highly decorated Captain Jawn help us by opening the door, please?”

Jawn folded his arms and pouted behind them, intending to do no such thing.

Mycroft sighed…Sherlock’s weight was becoming a strain now that they weren’t moving. He hitched him up to get a better grip and to switch shoulders, and looked down at Jawn; “Once we get inside, we’ll find a whole hoard of dummies to trade for yours back, but we can’t do anything about it until we get up there. Door, please?”

Jawn glowered at him for a moment before scooting around Mycroft and opening the front door, making sure the knocker was askew. 

Mycroft ignored Jawn and walked into the foyer. "Alright, here we are, sweet boy. You tried very hard and I’m very proud. Do you think you can go up the steps on your own?” he cooed, gently trying to extract himself from a labyrinth of gangly limbs. Sherlock merely clung tighter and started to cry in earnest. “I suppose not. Jawn, go on upstairs and make sure the door to flat is open, please."

Jawn stood in the open doorway, eyeing the street. “I wanna play on the swings.”

“No, Jawn. It’s time to come inside.” Mycroft started up the steps slowly.

“But the park has a lookout so we can see merchant ships.”

"Without your crew, you’ll have no way to overtake a merchant ship.”

Jawn scowled at the stoop before coming into the foyer and shutting the door with a bit more force than was necessary.

“If you find Sherlock a new dummy, then we can watch a pirate film while we snuggle.”

“I don’t need to watch a pirate film, cause Ima real pirate.”

"Real pirates can still learn from watching other pirates, but fine…you can pick what to watch.”

Jawn took a deep breath and blew a giant raspberry…he wasn’t getting to do anything now, and he wasn’t even in trouble. He turned sideways and squeezed beside Mycroft and Sherlock on the stairs; “What’s he cryin’ for, anyway?” he said, having to raise his voice over Sherlock now.

“Overwhelmed,” Mycroft answered. “And because he’s a baby, and that’s what babies do.” He took each step slowly, one foot at a time, and kept close to the wall.

Jawn reached the door and flung it open, making it bang against the wall inside.

Mycroft flinched; “A little more gentle there, lad…less Hulk, more Banner.”

“Jawn SMASH!” Jawn shouted, smashing the Union Jack pillow onto the floor.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sat on the sofa, Sherlock still riding his hip. “Are you going to bring me some dummies so Sherlock can pick another one and return yours?” Mycroft gently peeled the massive coat from the little detective’s shoulders.

“It’s my dummy and I want it now!” Jawn shouted, abandoning the umbrella and pummeled pillow on the floor. He reached to take the dummy from Sherlock’s mouth but found his wrist caught in a firm grip.

“No, no, Jawn. I told you that you could have this one when you found me a replacement.”

“He can find it ‘imself! He hides all the rest of ‘em so I can only have this one! And now he has this one too!” Jawn stomped his foot for emphasis.

“That sounds frustrating, but does not change the fact that I told you to find another dummy to replace this one.” Mycroft gently squeezed Jawn’s wrist. “You aren’t doing this for Sherlock. You are doing it for me.”

Jawn went red in the face and pulled his wrist free before stomping away.

Mycroft watched him with a raised eyebrow…now that little Jawn was comfortable enough around him, that ugly little temper was rearing its head. He anticipated a door being slammed and covered Sherlock’s ears, but it never came.

“I bet you’re not going to tell me any of your hiding places, are you?” he asked softly, tilting his head to peek down at his brother, who looked back up at him with a tear-covered, ruddy face. “No, I thought not.” Mycroft tapped the tip of his nose and kissed his forehead.

“Now let’s see…where did you used to hide them…” He reached down to pull off the little detective’s shoes and called out to Jawn, in case he was still listening; “Try looking in the battery casings of your toys.”

Jawn was curled up under the bed in his and Sherlock’s ‘big’ room, fuming. Their ice cream trip had gotten cut short, he hadn’t gotten to go to the toy store, he hadn’t gotten to go to the park, he couldn’t have his dummy AND he was having to find another one for the git who’d stolen his! All because Sherlock had decided to be a crybaby and hog all the ‘tention again. He heard Mycroft saying something from the sitting room, and covered his ears.

Mycroft listened carefully for sounds of the little doctor, but heard nothing. “I think we’re on our own finding you a different dummy.”

Mycroft lifted the cushion next him on the sofa. “Well, that’s repulsive,” he said, staring at an upended piece of toast. “When you’re both Big again, we are going to discuss cleanliness, in depth.” He put the cushion back in place, leaving the toast.

“Does Sherlock want to watch telly while My looks for a dummy for Jawn, hmm?” Sherlock frowned at him behind his dummy and clung tighter.

“The more quickly I find another dummy, the more quickly we can have juice and a snuggle.” Mycroft patted the little detectives bum and found him wet. No doubt Jawn was wet too. Changing him while he was having a tantrum was going to be a nightmare.

Sherlock slowly unwound himself from Mycroft until he was sitting on his own on the sofa, his eyes wide and wet.

“If I’m going to leave the room, I’ll let you know and you’ll come with me, alright?” Mycroft ran his hand through Sherlock’s riot of curls. 

Sherlock nodded slowly and watched Mycroft get up and head for the toy bin.

Mycroft started with the bigger noise-making toys, picking up a big, plastic keyboard decorated with cartoony animals playing instruments along the top. He flipped it over and popped open the battery case, and lo-and-behold, there were two dummies stacked where the batteries should be. “Some things never change, you little hoarder,” he said as he plucked them out.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the couch, trying to lean to the side and watch what Myc was doing. When Mycroft stood back up, dummies in hand, he reached for them.

“No, these have to be washed first, or they’re going to taste of metal. You need a safer hiding spot, little boy.” Mycroft started towards the kitchen to do just that.

Sherlock, ever the little observer, continued to watch his brother’s every step while his current dummy fluttered against his mouth. When he could no longer see him, he unfolded himself and climbed down onto all fours, then crawled after him.

\---

Soon, the quiet got to be too much, even for a stubborn little pirate captain trying to make a point, and Jawn pulled himself out from under the bed and crept down the hallway wondering why he couldn’t hear anyone anymore. He peeked around the corner into the kitchen--Mycroft was washing something in the sink while Sherlock looked on from where he sat at Myc’s feet.

“…and we are going to go through the flat and find all of the hidden dummies and if you refuse to share your dummies with Jawn, then I’ll have to get him some of his own. And he’s not going to share with you since you haven’t shared with him." Mycroft finished cleaning the dummies and held them down for Sherlock. “Which one?” The little detective made to grab both, but Mycroft pulled them out of reach. “One."

Sherlock made distressed sounds behind his dummy before selecting a pink dummy covered in geometric shapes. 

Mycroft deftly swapped the newly cleaned dummy for the one in his mouth. "Jawn, you can quit spying and come in lad. Let me give your dummy a rinse and then it’s all yours.”

Now that Jawn had stomped and shouted and basically put himself in a time-out, he didn’t feel like being angry anymore. He ambled around the corner into the kitchen, looking down at the floor, and mumbled a quick “Thankyou,” under his breath and held out his hand for it.

“You’re very welcome…are you still going to join us for a movie and a cuddle?” Mycroft shook the dummy dry and handed it to him.

Jawn stared at his feet and nudged at the carpet with his toes, before look up at Mycroft through a wave of dirty-blond hair. “…Can I still pick?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course you can.” Mycroft moved to the cabinet, having to step over Sherlock, who grabbed at his trouser leg and giggled at him.

“You’re getting a bottle because you’re tiny,” Myc said, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Does Jawn want his turtle cup again?”

“Can I have my Hero one? And can we watch Hero’s, too?”

“Are these the same heroes that were on your plasters this morning?”

“Yeah! There’s a Captain there, too!”

“I thought you didn’t want to watch a pirate film?” Mycroft pulled the heroes cup and a bottle from the cabinet and stepped back over Sherlock to get to the fridge.

“What? No. He’s an army Captain.” Jawn fiddled with his dummy, rubbing it on his mouth.

“‘Ron man!” Sherlock slurred behind his dummy, reaching for the now full hero sip cup. Mycroft handed him the bottle instead. The little detective immediately dropped it onto the floor and continued to reach for the hero cup, grunting in frustration.

“Sherlock needs a nappy change before we start the film, does Jawn need to be changed too?”

The little doctor’s face and ears turned three shades of red. Mycroft didn’t bother waiting for a response and instead tugged Jawn close by the top of his trousers and checked the state of Jawn’s nappy for himself. “You need a changing as well. Come along, lads.”

Sherlock immediately started to crawl down the hall after Mycroft. Jawn dawdled in the kitchen. “Come along Jawn, we don’t want to have to change your name to Captain Jawn Wet Pants,” Mycroft called out.

Shoving his dummy into his mouth, Jawn headed back to the bedroom to be changed.

“So, this makes change number three…how many nappies do you go through in day?” Mycroft asked as they entered the nursery, Sherlock hot on his heels. He patted the bed and told the little detective to “Climb up,” then turned towards the dresser and started opening drawers.

Jawn sauntered in after them…he was resigned to the fact of Mycroft changing him by now, but that didn’t mean he had to like it one bit. “ ‘unno,” he mumbled, then stopped staring at his feet long enough to notice what Myc was up to. “Wha’ doin’?"

“We’re not leaving the flat for the rest of the day…at least not for a good, long while, so you’re both getting changed into something more appropriate.” Mycroft held up a pale yellow and white-striped onesie…he turned it around and along the backside were green ruffles, apparently made to look like grass, with embroidered flowers off all sorts of colours ‘growing’ from it, and of course, bees flitting among them.

“I don’t wan’ different clothes!” Jawn protested, letting his dummy fall from his mouth and bounce on the floor.

“You don’t? Hm, there are an awful lot of cute, very comfortable-looking ones in here…and it would make it easier for me to see when you need a change.” Mycroft turned back to the bed, where Sherlock was laying on his back, playing with one of his feet. “What if Jawn gets to pick his own clothes out…would you like it better then?”

“I pick these clothes,” Jawn said rubbing a hand down the belly of his grey jumper.

Mycroft smirked as he stripped Sherlock of his trousers. Smart arse little thing. “No, Jawn. Pick out something comfortable to wear to snuggle. I saw something green in the drawer.

“G'een?”

“Yes, green. How did the two of you get this shirt on him this morning?” Mycroft asked as he undid the last of a dozen tiny buttons down the front of Sherlock’s shirt.

“He was sorta big this morning. I tol' him to wear somethin’ else.” Jawn stooped to pick up his dummy, shoving it back into his mouth before Mycroft could protest.

“Yes, a very thorough talking to about cleanliness,” Mycroft cooed, tickling Sherlock’s naked belly. “Pick an outfit, Jawn, or I’ll pick one for you.”

Mycroft pulled the nappy bin from beneath the bed and took out what he needed to change two nappies. He ignored the huff the little doctor put on while rummaging through the drawer for something to wear.

Mycroft was in the midst of cleaning Sherlock up when Jawn flopped down onto the top half of the bed with a wad of blue and green fabric bunched up in his hands. Sherlock squealed and reached for him while trying to roll over, giggling. “Hi, Jawn!”

Jawn grinned and leaned over him; “Hi, ‘Lock!”

Mycroft held down his hips with one hand; “What’s that you picked, that’s going to look horribly wrinkled?”

Jawn sat up on his knees and held up a…well, Mycroft didn’t know enough about infant-wear to know what it could be called, but it looked like another onesie, only with legs that would come down to mid-thigh, that buttoned up the middle. Bright green frogs with huge goggle-eyes on a blue background stared back at him, with ladybugs in the empty spaces…the buttons were shaped like them, as well.

“More buttons, hmm? Still…very cute,” Mycroft said with an approving nod. He sprinkled Sherlock with a liberal amount of powder and taped him up, then helped him sit up to get him dressed. “Are you going to let me pull this over your head without a fuss?” he asked playfully, “…or are you going to scream bloody-murder again?”

Sherlock gave him a beatific grin, which quickly turned into a pouty shriek as Mycroft pulled his onesie over his head. “Oh hush, you’re alright.” Mycroft popped a kiss on his forehead before snugging the onesie down and under his bottom and snapping it closed.

“He always fusses ‘bout gettin’ dressed,” Jawn said, his dummy lolling in his mouth.

“That’s not going to be a problem for Captain Jawn, though, is it.” Mycroft patted Sherlock’s thigh and then began to undo Jawn’s trousers.

“No.” Jawn blushed as he was stripped of his trousers. Mycroft sat him up and took off jumper and vest in one fluid motion. “I don’t fuss.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, unwilling to point out what a little fuss pot Jawn actually was. He laid Jawn back down and stripped him of his sodden nappy.

“Jawn?” Sherlock wiggled close to Jawn, his dummy pressed to the little doctor’s cheek.

“Yea?” Jawn shifted unhappily as Mycroft cleaned his bits. He was being a little too thorough if you asked him.

“I lub ‘Ron Man.”

Jawn rolled his eyes, “Yea. I know.”

Mycroft frowned slightly. Jawn’s skin looked a redder than it had at the last change. “How long were you wet, little boy?”

Jawn shrugged. He was a little boy; it wasn’t his job to keep track of these things.

“Does it hurt?”

Jawn shook his head.

Sherlock craned his neck so he could see; “Owie?”

Jawn frowned and reached up to cover Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’ look!”

While the two boys where scuffling with each other–Sherlock trying to push Jawn’s hand out of his face and Jawn trying to pull his head back down–Mycroft used the distraction to fetch a tube of rash creme from the nappy bin, squeeze a good amount onto his fingers, and apply it to Jawn’s nappy area.

Jawn nearly jumped out of his own skin. “Tha's cold!” he whinged, trying to squirm away from Mycroft’s touch.

“Apologies, Captain." Mycroft finished spreading the creme on Jawn’s bits and then wiped what was left on his fingers on the inside of the new nappy. “Lift up," he added, but before the little doctor could obey, Mycroft had scooped his arm behind his right knee and lifted his bum off the bed.

Jawn’s blush rushed up his chest and across his cheeks. Why did Mycroft only lift him that way? He hadn’t done it to Sherlock.

“Owie? Owie, Jawn?” Sherlock very gently touched Jawn’s face.

Jawn turned into the touch, ignoring Mycroft taping up his nappy. “Kinda.”

“C'eme!” Sherlock demanded, holding a hand out for the nappy creme.

“Noooo! Not like that, Sh'lock!” Jawn groaned, pulling the duvet up to hide his face.

“C'eme fa’ owie!”

“It’s not that kind of owie, lad…Jawn doesn’t need any on his face,” Mycroft said, batting his hand away and covering The Crimson Captain. “All he needs is to get dressed, have his juice, and snuggle on the couch, isn’t that right?”

Jawn begrudgingly sat up and stepped into the onesie that Mycroft was holding for him and let him button it without complaint, but he had a permanent pout on his face.

Mycroft chuckled; Jawn was cute when he was mad.

Sometimes. Sometimes he was cute when he was mad.

“What would put a smile back on that face? You’ve got your dummy back, you’re full of ice cream, you’re nice and dry, you’re in soft clothes, and you got to pick your movie…so where’s that stormy look coming from?”

Jawn crossed his arms and glowered at him…which might have been more effective without the powder-blue dummy tucked in his mouth. 

...Mycroft reached out and tickled his neck before Jawn could twist away.

The little doctor squealed and tucked his neck down, giggling, then fell backwards onto the bed. When he realized what Mycroft had done, he stopped laughing and tried to glare at him again, but it was too late…and now Sherlock was in on the act.

Sherlock’s long fingers dug into his ribs and up into his arm pits. Jawn rolled from side to side, trying to lose the menacing fingers to no avail.

“S-s-sToP!” Jawn howled, making a grab for Sherlock’s wrists but, needing to keep his arms pressed into his sides, missed.

“Alright, Sherlock, that’s enough.” Mycroft gently pulled the baby away from Jawn, tucking him against his side. “Are you done with the grumps now, Jawn?”

Jawn wheezed for breathe, a giggle breaking through every few seconds. “You guys…don’t…fight fair!”

Mycroft shrugged. Perhaps not, but the results were usually in their favor so…

He offered Jawn a hand up and the little doctor eyed it warily before accepting it and standing up.

“I lost my dummy," Jawn lamented, eyeing the mess of bedclothes sadly.

“I halp!” Sherlock said, belly flopping back onto the bed, long fingers searching through the bedding.

“You’re not gonna–!”

“Foun’it!” Sherlock sat up on his knees, dummy held aloft victoriously.

Jawn hmphed. “Okay…give!”

“You say p’ease!”

“My’coff!” Jawn squawked indignantly. “Make him give!”

“Sherlock does have a point, Jawn…it’s nice to say please.”

Jawn had been right…they don’t play fair! "Fiiiiine,” he groaned. “P’ease give back!”

“Mean it!”

“Sherlock…he said please. Give it back to him.”

The little detective jumped and landed on his knees, bouncing heavily on the mattress, and tossed the dummy at Jawn, hitting him square in the nose. Sherlock started laughing maniacally.

“Hey!” Jawn bent to pick up his dummy and turned to look up at Mycroft. “Did you see that?! He threw!”

“Sherlock, apologize.” Mycroft put a gentle hand on the back of Jawn’s neck.

“Sowwie!” Sherlock cackled, rolling on the bed.

“Say it like you mean it!” Jawn sneered.

“And we’re done here. Jawn, will you get out the hero movie we’re going to watch and put it in the DVD player?” Mycroft guided him out of the bedroom.

“Jawn no know how!” Sherlock chased them down the hallway, bare feet slapping.

“I do so!”

Mycroft gave Jawn a gentle push towards the sitting room before turning on his baby brother. “Sherlock. Collect your bottle and Jawn’s cup, please.”

“Is my cup. Mine ‘ron man!”

“No. Sherlock is too little for a big boy cup today. You’ll have your bottle. Now, go get them please.”

Sherlock frowned as he stooped below the kitchen table to collect the bottle.

“My'coff, where going?” Jawn asked from the doorway of the sitting room.

“The lavatory. You both have tasks to complete. Behave!” Mycroft slipped into the bathroom, closing the door. It was a huge gamble, leaving them alone, but nature wouldn’t wait any longer.


	7. "Jawn is Ca'pin America," by Sher'yock Ho'mes. Alternatively, "Bu'd I'm no'd a 'murican," by Jawn Wad'son.

Jawn turned to go into the sitting room to set up the movie, but he noticed that Sherlock breezed back into the room, with only his bottle in hand. “Where’s my cup?”

The little detective shrugged, and Jawn frowned; “Go get it!”

Sherlock scowled. “You not boss!”

“My told you!”

The little detective dropped his bottle and folded his arms across his chest, then shook his head. “I do movie,” he said, brushing past Jawn.

“Nuh-UH, my job!” Jawn whirled around, caught Sherlock around the waist and lifted him off his feet, eliciting an ear-splitting screech.

Mycroft sighed, and wondered if he could get away with just staying where he was. He slowly washed his hands and adjusted his waist coat while listening to the intense squabbling in the sitting room. He was actually surprised it had taken this long for a fight to break out, since ‘sibling’ rivalry had been the theme of the day. Steeling himself, he opened the bathroom door and made his way into the sitting room.

Without hesitation, he smacked the back of the first thigh he saw. Sherlock howled indignantly, and released the hold he had on Jawn’s ear to cover his thigh.

“Naughty step. Now.”

Sherlock looked ready to protest, but another smack on the leg sent him scurrying for the steps.

Jawn stood glaring at Mycroft, chest heaving. Mycroft moved swiftly, stepping in and smacking _his_ thigh as well; “Corner. Now.”

The little doctor rushed to obey, and the flat was silent except for the sounds of sniffles from the stairwell and the corner of the kitchen.

Now that the boxers had been sent to their respective corners of the ring, Mycroft took his time in getting both Jawn’s cup and Sherlock’s bottle, then returning to the nursery to collect two blankets…the green one being Jawn’s, obviously, so that must mean the purple one was his little brother’s. He left them on opposite ends of the couch, and then put the DVD into the player. “…You may both come out now.”

He kept his back turned until he heard the quiet footsteps of two subdued little boys pad up behind him. When he turned to face them, he was met with two very contrite-looking, ruddy-faced little ones…Sherlock still had unshed tears in his eyes and had, at some point, lost his dummy and traded it for his thumb.

Mycroft put his hands on his hips and looked down at them; “You both know why you were put into time-out, so I’m not going to rehash that or why you shouldn’t ever do that again. I want you both to hug and apologize, then go sit with your blankets.”

Sherlock and Jawn cast wary glances at each other, neither making the first move, until Mycroft cleared his throat.

Jawn, feeling that since he was the older of two, opened his arms and mumbled “Sorry,” while looking down at the floor.

Sherlock fell into the little doctor’s embrace, burying is face in Jawn’s shoulder; “So'wwie, Jawn.”

Jawn patted his back reflexively. “S'okay.”

“There’s my good boys. Now, blankets.”

Jawn and Sherlock untangled themselves and went to sit on opposite ends of the sofa. Sherlock sat sideways on top of his blanket, rubbing his cheek on the soft material draped over the back cushion, while Jawn curled into a tiny ball underneath his blanket with only his nose visible.

“You’re both adorable--which is lucky, because you’re both also incorrigible.” Mycroft sat between the two little boys, tugging them both in close before turning on the DVD.

“Now, who is this handsome character with the sceptre?” Mycroft gently pulled Sherlock’s thumb from his mouth and replaced it with the bottle. With all the weeping and nappy changes, they were both at risk for dehydration.

“Loki,” Jawn peeped from beneath his blanket barricade.

Mycroft gently prodded Jawn out of hiding. “He’s who the captain and the iron man must defeat?”

“Yea. But he was tricked and is sad. So it’s kinda not his fault,” Jawn said, eyes glued to the screen as he fiddled with the sippy cup Mycroft had put in his hands

"P’etty,” Sherlock said, feeling the need to add to the discussion going on without him.

“Hm, what was that? He’s petty?” Mycroft asked, petting Sherlock’s hair.

The little detective giggled and popped his bottle out of his mouth. “No, p’wetty!” he said, smiling and wrinkling his nose up at his brother. A thin line of juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

Mycroft wiped it away with his thumb, then wiped his thumb on Sherlock’s blanket. “Well…you’re not wrong. But I thought you liked Iron Man?”

“Bo’ff!”

Jawn snorted, which no one in this room full of Rulers of the Derisive Snort would have noticed, had it not been for the fact that the little one had quite forgotten about the straw full of juice in his mouth. A swig of apple juice shot down his throat the wrong way and, for a moment, he lost his breath before coughing violently.

Mycroft rubbed his back absently; “Smaller sips, lad. Is that…”

“‘Ron Man!” Sherlock bolted up, standing on the sofa. “My look! P'wetty ‘Ron Man!” Sherlock shook his bottle at the telly, spilling droplets of juice everywhere.

“Sit down, Sherlock!”

The little boy obeyed, falling half in Mycroft’s lap. “'Ron man!”

Jawn, finally with his breathing under control, tugged on Mycroft’s sleeve. “I almos’ choked a'death.”

"Did you? I am sorry. Are you better now?” Mycroft struggled to get the squirmy little detective back in his own seat, so he could give Jawn his full attention.

“Yea.” Jawn nodded before turning back to the film.

Sherlock had wiggled his way fully onto Mycroft’s lap and now had his brother’s face cupped in his hands. "My?”

“You are a terror, you know that don’t you?”

Sherlock face scrunched as he gave Mycroft a huge grin.

Mycroft gave the tip of Sherlock’s nose a quick kiss. “Of course you do. Like a gremlin before it eats after midnight.”

Sherlock giggled and mashed Mycroft’s cheeks together, giving him a fish pout.

“Mm-mm, no.” Before Sherlock knew what was happening, he found himself lying backwards in his brother’s arms with his bottle prodding at his mouth. “It’s not playtime,” Mycroft added. “It’s ‘let-everyone-watch-the-movie-in-peace’ time.”

Sherlock turned his head away and grunted as he tried to sit back up…he wasn’t a fan of being restrained, never had been. “No…NO, Myc’off...up, up!” he pleaded when twisting and turning didn’t work. He didn’t like how his brother always (or at least 80, maybe 85% of the time) managed to be stronger than him. “Up now!”

“Shhhhh. I’ll let you sit up, IF you promise to sit still and be quiet.”

"Uh-huh, up, up-up-up-up up–!”

“I can’t hear!” Jawn whined, looking up at Mycroft and silently pleading with him to do something.

Sherlock leaned back into Mycroft’s arms, head tipped back. “Whisper, Jawn?”

“Yes! Sherlock’s gots'ta whisper.”

"I can get up now, My,” the little detective stage whispered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No, Sherlock. It’s time to rest.”

“Watch movie?”

“Yes.”

“The a'bengers win.”

Jawn squawked indignantly. “No tell the endin’! Where is your mute button?”

Sherlock’s eyes got huge as he patted his chest where his dummy was usually clipped. “Lost!

“We’ll find it after the movie ends,” Mycroft said, rolling Sherlock at an angle onto his side so he could still see the screen and popping his bottle back into his mouth before there were any more complaints. The little detective grunted and tried to spit it back out, but Mycroft was adamant; “Finish it.”

Sherlock glared at him with all of the impotent rage a two-year-old-at-heart could muster, but when he realized that wasn’t getting him anywhere, he finally settled back and watched the action unfold (for what must have been the 50th time) while taking long, slow drags from his bottle.

Both Mycroft and Jawn let out a deep sigh of relief; it was the first quiet moment they’d had since…well, since naptime ended. “What’s the Captain’s power?” Mycroft asked, absently patting Sherlock’s bum with his free hand

“Big an’ strong,” Jawn replied, staring at the screen. Unlike Sherlock, he could always find some new detail going on in the background, no matter how small, and he took great pride in rubbing it in Sherlock’s face when he did so.

“So, like the Hulk? And Thor?”

“Nu- _UH_ , s’diff’rent!”

“How so?”

…Jawn didn’t quite know how to respond. He knew how it was different, of course, and how each hero had their own qualities to bring to the team, but he couldn’t quite think of how to put it into words.

“He’s like Jawn,” Sherlock said, turning his head away from the bottle.

“How so?” Mycroft asked, again.

“A'cause, a'cause Jawn would do whatever it takes to get the bad guys. An’ he was small before, an’ he was still the bravest.”

Jawn blushed crimson, his hands twisting the hem of his blanket mercilessly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Also, he’s bossy and in love with a genius.” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at Jawn’s indignant huff and grunted his displeasure when Mycroft stuffed the bottle back into his mouth.

“He’s the bossy one,” Jawn groused, glaring at the television.

“It’s a competition you are both going to lose,” Mycroft said with a soft smile, gently nudging Jawn. “He was correct, though...you are very brave.”

“Another word for dumb.” Jawn chewed his lip and forced himself to keep his eyes focused on the screen, though he’d stopped watching the movie.

Mycroft sighed; “I’m sorry. I was wrong to say such a thing, and you’ve shown a hundred times over that that isn’t true.” Mycroft left off patting Sherlock to rub Jawn’s back. “Jawn is very clever, as well as brave.”

Jawn felt himself blushing and huddled his blanket back up over his head to hide it. “But you’re always right?”

“I’m right about being wrong.”

“But what if you’re wrong now about being right?”

“No, I’m right now.”

“Right now what?”

“What?”

“What about right now?”

“No, I was saying that I’m right, right now–” Mycroft stopped when he heard muffled giggling coming from the folds of Jawn’s blanket, at the same moment he felt Sherlock trembling in his lap…he glanced down and caught Sherlock biting down on his lip, hard, in an effort to keep from laughing.

Mycroft sighed. “…Massive brats. Massive, **AWFUL** , whingy little brats.”

Sherlock leaned up and pressed his face underneath Mycroft’s chin. “Lu'b My!”

Jawn scooted up onto his knees and pressed himself along Mycroft’s side, “Yea! Love, My'coff.” He pressed his blanket covered lips to Mycroft’s temple, making a loud smacking noise.

“Yes, yes, I love you, too.” Mycroft patted twin padded bums; “but you’re both still terrible.”

“Are you right now?” Sherlock quipped, sending Jawn into a fit of giggles that nearly toppled him off the sofa.

“Easy,” Mycroft wrapped an arm around Jawn’s waist and tugged his blanket down off his face. “Jawn needs to put his bottom on the sofa.”

Jawn bounced back onto his bottom, causing the springs in the sofa to groan. “It used to be bouncier,” he pouted.

“I’m sure being jumped on by naughty boys has nothing to do with why it’s no longer ‘bouncy’.”

“Sherlock did it!” Jawn pointed at the baby, who had slid from his brother's grip and was rapidly crawling out of the sitting room.

"I think he had help in that department,” Mycroft said as he stood and started to follow the bum that was scurrying down the hall--the flowers sewn along the backside of the onesie seemed to be waving at him. “Where do you think you’re going, little sir?”

Sherlock giggled and sped up, his knees thumping along, and Mycroft wondered if they didn’t ache after a long day of being tiny. He reached down and caught the little detective’s narrow ankle just as he skirted the edge of the nursery door.

Sherlock squealed and bucked, trying to pull his foot free. “No, no no no nonononononono, My! L’eggo!”

“You’re much too little to go off by yourself like that, lad. Tell me what you’re after, and we’ll bring it back with us.”

Sherlock stopped his struggling and went limp, laying belly-down on the floor. Mycroft, having gotten wise to such tricks in the span of the afternoon, kept his hold on his ankle.

The little detective looked over his shoulder at his brother; “Co’ders?” he asked.

“Cudders?”

“Co’ders!” Sherlock insisted, slapping his hands against the floor.

“He means colours!” Jawn shouted from the other room. “Crayons!”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a good idea in the slightest.”

“Co'ders!” Sherlock kicked with his free leg and pounded his fists on the floor.

“Hm, I wonder if your bottom still warm?” Mycroft asked amicably, releasing the hold he had on Sherlock’s ankle to cross his arms over his chest.

Sherlock froze, his face falling into a pout as his eyes welled up.

“Sher’yock got spankings a'fore, for coloring on the walls and the table,” Jawn peeped behind Mycroft, causing the older man to jump.

“No more ‘panks. Jus’ co'ders,” Sherlock mumbled into the floor.

"Can we color? If we draw you pit'chers, will you hang them on your fridge?”

“Co'ders a’ My f'idge!” Sherlock sat up and bounced on his padded bum.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the obvious manipulation, but decided to let it slide. “What shall you draw for my fridge?”

“Whad’dya want?”

"Dealer’s choice,” Mycroft replied as he bent down to help Sherlock up from the floor, then lifted him up onto his hip to keep him from scrambling off elsewhere again. Once they were both big again, he was going to suggest they buy a crib. Or one of those big, round, gate-like things people stuck their children in…playpens, or some such.  
Anything with tall, sturdy bars, really.

“Somethin’ g’een!! Like, um…like worms!” Jawn said with a devilish little grin curling up his cheeks.

Mycroft gave him a look, since he had his hands too full to swat at him. “If Jawn draws worms, they will not be going on my refrigerator.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in the way he knew would make him too adorable to scold. “Gol’fish!”

"Is everything an inside joke with the both of you?”

“Only the funny things!” Jawn skittered past Mycroft and into the nursery. He pulled open the closet and dropped to his knees, half crawling inside, and began tossing items that were not ‘co'ders’ over his shoulder.

“Jawn is going to clean all of this up when he’s done.”

“Sherlock did it,” Jawn said absently before crowing in victory as he pulled a large plastic tub of crayons from underneath a stack of half finished ‘arts’.

“Sherlock most certainly did not 'do it’.” Mycroft patted the little detective on his hip, expecting a fit of indignant rage at being falsely accused..but Sherlock sat placidly, wide eyed, as Jawn opened the bin of crayons and started pulling out his favorites.

“Not in here, Jawn. Where is the paper?”

Jawn gestured vaguely to the sitting room before reluctantly dropping his handful of pilfered green crayons back into the tub. He replaced the lid, and then hugged the large tub to his chest before standing up and trotting back down the hallway.

“How often do you blame Sherlock for your naughty behavior, Jawn?”

Now that Jawn was out of his sight, Sherlock began to squirm. “Down, down My?” he pleaded, trying to crane his neck to see…he was eager to get there before Jawn usurped every single green crayon in the box. “Down, p’ease?!”

“Alright, alright…down.” Mycroft set Sherlock on his feet before he dropped him altogether, and smirked as the little detective took off like a shot--no time for crawling now. He followed after him, and was just in time to see Jawn placing a stack of printer paper next to the bin of crayons on the low coffee table as Sherlock plopped himself down at the other end. “I don’t remember Jawn answering my question…and I don’t remember him picking up after his excavation, either.”

“After I’m done,” Jawn replied as he grabbed the stack of green crayons still sitting on top and moved them to his side of the table.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and was about to go into a very long list of reasons about why that particular answer was the wrongest the little doctor had ever been, when Jawn’s angry voice interrupted his thoughts:

“NO, that one’s g’een!!! You can’t have it!” Jawn was standing at one end of the table and leaning over it, his open hand thrust out at Sherlock. “Give back!”

Mycroft sighed for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day; it was the dummy argument all over again. “Jawn, you have a whole pile of green ones, in all different shades…let Sherlock have one.”

“No!” Jawn stomped his foot for emphasis. “G'een is mines! Gimme it!” Jawn made to grab the crayon but found himself being pulled back and plopped on his bottom.

“Jawn has enough green crayons. If he needs the one that Sherlock is using, he can trade one of his other green crayons for it,” Mycroft said, hoping to head off a wobbler...years of diplomatic work was proving no match for dealing with two whingy toddlers.

“Nonononono!” Jawn’s heels thumping on the floor. “Is my g'een c'ayons!”

“What are you going to draw, Jawn?” Mycroft sat on the sofa and pulled a sheet of paper from the stack.

“...A Hulk,” Jawn sulked.

“My co'der?” Sherlock nudged the crayon tub closer to his older brother, but keeping his green crayon cradled to his chest.

“We can put your pit'cher on our f'idge, too.” Jawn kept his green crayons in his lap, fiddling with them, but his attention had turned back to the film--the final fight sequence was playing on the screen.

“Perhaps. What should I draw?”

“Gol’fish,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose the same way he had earlier.

“That was cute exactly once,” Mycroft replied (although he could possibly be coerced into saying it was cute this time, too) and reached out to pinch the little detective’s cheek, making him squeal and fall to the side. “Besides, I thought that’s what you were drawing.”

“Uh-huh!” Sherlock sat up and dug into the pile of crayons again, swishing his hand around to make them rattle and clack against one another.

“That’s a bit unnecessary, lad.” Mycroft took his little brother’s wrist and held it still after noticing the annoyed look Jawn shot them. Seems that someone was still a mite touchy about missing a green crayon. “So, how do they calm the Hulk down after a fight? Does he stay green forever?” he asked, picking out a brown crayon for himself, then a red one.

“Singin’,” Jawn mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Music can be very soothing.” Mycroft began to sketch out his drawing. “Do they say what song?”

“No, jus’ a lullaby.”

Sherlock tugged on his brother’s sleeve. “My'coff! This one is g'een! Hulk fish! Look, My'coff!” Sherlock wiggled in place, immensely pleased by the scribbled green fish on his paper.

“That’s lovely. Can you draw some more fish? They like to live in big groups called schools.”

“Sc'oo’s,” Sherlock nodded seriously as he began to draw more fish in neon orange.

“Do you know lots of songs?” Jawn asked, looking up at Mycroft.

"Quite a few. Mummy doesn’t have much of a singing voice, but she loved to sing when we were small.”

"Ouch! My ears!” Sherlock giggled over his own joke, ignoring the pointed look Mycroft sent him.

“I only know a few. I keep trying to learn more a'cause it helps Sherlock sleep."

Mycroft smiled to himself. “It always did. I mostly hum, myself…Sherlock’s awfully lucky he has someone who can carry a tune now.”

Jawn blushed and looked down at his page, where he’d barely done a few lines of colour, but it was obvious he was a very proud little man at that point. “Not that good,” he muttered, trying to pass it off as no big deal.

“Uh- _HUH_!” Sherlock protested. “I y’ike it when Jawn sing!”

“Well, if Sherlock said it, it must be true.” Mycroft finished the darker outline of a big, chocolate cake on his paper and started shading in the frosting, saving the big cherries on top for last--he knew both boys would get a kick out of it and would make cake-jokes for ages after, but he found that he didn’t mind the thought.

“Jawn sing now?”

Jawn looked up, surprised, and saw Sherlock watching him from across the table with those big, bright eyes of his, orange crayon still poised above his picture. He glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye and quickly shook his head; “No, not now.”

Sherlock’s face fell into one of genuine disappointment. “P’ease?! Jawn sing?!”

“Uh-uh.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip stuck out, and just when Mycroft thought he was in for another squall of a tantrum, his little brother surprised both of them by putting his green crayon on the table and pushing it over to Jawn. “…P’ease?”

Jawn stared at Sherlock, wide eyed before gently picking up the crayon and cradling it to his chest. He licked his lips and began; “If I had words to make a day for you…” Jawn paused to glance nervously at Mycroft before going on. “I’d sing you a morning, golden and true.”

Sherlock had his head tipped to the side, smiling softly. Mycroft glanced between them before stealthily pulling his phone from his pocket; this was too precious to not try and save.

“I would make this day last for all time, then fill the night deep in moonshine.” Jawn smiled into his lap as Sherlock hummed along as he moved through the verse one more time.

“Again, Jawn. P'ease?” Sherlock begged, slowly opening his eyes that had drifted shut.

“You’ll fall asleep.”

“Not s'eeping, Jawn! Listening!” Sherlock tried to scowl around a yawn, but failed.

Mycroft had secreted his phone back into his pocket, the video hidden inside an encrypted file, just in case tiny hands (very large hands, actually…) found his phone. “That’s a beautiful lullaby, Jawn," he said, and picked up his crayon back up to put the finishing touches on the frosting on his cake.


	8. "We'd spanks are the worse'r spanks," by Sher'yock Ho'mes; Alternatively, ""You should try harder, y'ike me," by Jawn Wa'dson; Alternatively-alternative, "Be nice or you're next," by Mycroft Holmes, Esq.

Sherlock quickly rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand, grumpy that he hadn’t gotten a second song, but that was overridden by Jawn having picked one of his favorites. "What My doing?” he asked, abandoning his school of mostly-orange fish and their one green friend to climb up onto the couch and bulldoze his way into Mycroft’s lap, where he settled and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  
“Colouring, like you both asked me to,” Mycroft grunted as he turned his head to avoid getting a mouthful of curly hair.

  
“What co’doring?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head back to peer up at his brother, chewing on his thumb.

  
“Look and see for yourself, nosy.”

  
‘Nosy’ Little Sherlock wrinkled his own nose at his brother and looked down at the picture like Mycroft asked. “Cake!” he babbled excitedly, picking it up.

  
“Well, I wasn’t done with it yet.”

  
“Y’ook, Jawn! My’coff cake!”

  
Jawn looked up and grinned; “It looks like a choc’late mountain!”

  
“Does it? I’ve never seen a three-tiered mountain with cherries on top.”

  
“You should add’a choc’ate snowman! With a head fer’a cherry!”

  
“…A head for a cherry?”

  
Jawn snorted; “You know what I mean, My’coff!”

  
“You sound like Sherlock.”

  
Jawn flashed him a toothy grin before going back to his drawing.

  
“What d'at means, My'coff?” Sherlock frowned, gently patting his older brother’s cheek.

  
Mycroft shook his head, not willing to upset the peace they’d found. “Would you like to help me finish colouring my picture?”

  
“Co'doring My pit'cher?!”

  
“I wanna help! I can help!” Jawn scrambled up and around the end of the table until he was kneeling opposite Mycroft, green crayon poised for action.

  
“Yes, Jawn can help me as well.” Mycroft eased the baby off his lap and back onto the floor. “Can you create the snowman with the head cherry?”

  
Jawn rolled his eyes before picking up a pink crayon to begin painstakingly drawing a cherry.

  
“I d'aw pish?” Sherlock slurred around his thumb.

  
“Are there fish on a chocolate mountain?”

  
“Ye'th!”

  
“Oh, no,” Jawn whispered; “I’m so sorry, My'coff.” The little doctor sounded near tears.

  
“What’s wrong, Jawn?”

  
Jawn leaned away from the table, showing off the part of the picture he’d been working on. The green crayons he’d been holding to his chest had left scribbles on the corner of the paper when he’d been drawing the cherry. “I broke it.”

  
“You didn’t break anything. Grass grows around the base of mountains.”

  
“But that’s the sky!”

  
“And that’s a chocolate cake for a mountain. We’re not going for realism, lad…we can have a green sky, along with fish, and an army of cherry snowmen.”

  
Jawn looked as if he wanted ever so much for that to be true, but he still needed to be convinced. “…Really?” he asked, chewing on the end of the pink crayon.

  
Mycroft moved his hand away; “ Don’t do that, you’ll turn your teeth pink. And yes, really. Finish up the green sky, and Sherlock can add more fish.”

  
Sherlock perked up at the sound of his name. “Pink tee’f? I see?” he said, reaching for Jawn’s mouth.

  
Well, that was a disaster waiting to happen. “No, no pink teeth,” Mycroft said, taking him around the waist and sitting him back down on his bottom.

  
“I see!”

  
“There’s nothing to see; colour your fish.”

  
“But I wan’ seeeeeee!” Sherlock whinged, and kept sinking down further into the floor.

  
Mycroft sighed; “Jawn, please smile at Sherlock so he can see that you don’t have pink teeth.”

  
“Spoilt,” Jawn grumbled, getting to his feet and leaning over the coffee table. Sherlock had ‘melted’ into a pile of whinge, leaning heavily against Mycroft’s leg. “Look, see--” Jawn bared his teeth at Sherlock, clicking them together for emphasis. “No pink. I would have g'een tee'f anyways.”

  
Sherlock giggled and reached out to touch Jawn’s exposed teeth. Before Mycroft could intercede,the little doctor nipped gently at Sherlock’s fingers, causing the little detective to squeak in delight. “Jawn have nice tee'fs.”

Jawn beamed with pride as he plopped his bottom back on the floor and took up his green crayon.

  
“My'coff have nice tee'fs?” Sherlock half crawled back into his big brother’s lap, his bottom half still on the floor.

  
“They are splendid, thank you.” Mycroft leaned around the baby in his lap to draw the body of the chocolate snowman.

  
“I can see, My?” Sherlock rolled his lips back, demonstrating for Mycroft how easy it was to show off his teeth. “P'ease, My?”

  
“Who taught you that begging long enough gets you what you want, hm?” Mycroft asked, and then kissed the tip of the little detective’s nose without looking away from what he was doing. “Whomever taught you that needs a swift kick in the pants.”

  
Surprised by the kiss, Sherlock jerked his head back, startled, and blinked at his brother owlishly before he started giggling. “Noooo, My! I see tee’fs!” He gently butted his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder and rubbed his face from side to side, chanting “Tee’f tee’f tee’f, I see tee’f!”

  
“You’re going to make the Tooth Fairy question her job security,” Mycroft said, then (once it was clear that Sherlock was only getting louder, and had energy yet to keep going) added a loud “FINE, yes, here they are!”, and bared most of his teeth in a wide, wolfish grin. “See?”

  
Sherlock leaned in close and hooked his finger in the man’s bottom lip, examining them with a comically professional gaze. “…They’s yellow,” he said, finally.

  
Mycroft nipped the tip of that finger, causing Sherlock to squeal again and yank it back. “You’re yellow.”

  
“Nuh-uh!”

  
“Your bum’s yellow. With flowers on it.”

  
Sherlock gaped at Mycroft for a moment before twisting as best he could to see his own bum. “F'wowers?”

  
“F'wowers is a’licious,” Jawn nodded to himself, as he studiously finished filling in the green sky.

  
“And bees. Which are also yellow.”

  
“Y'ike your teefs!” Sherlock giggled, leaning into Mycroft’s chest.

  
“Yes, yes, very funny. Are you going to finish colouring your fish?”

  
“No co’doring. Can play?”

  
“I y’ike games!” Jawn peeped, shoving his green crayon into the pocket of his onesie. “Pit’cher is done, now fw’idge!!!” He bounded to his feet and skittered out of the sitting room, picture in hand.

  
“Game?” Sherlock looked up at his big brother hopefully.

  
“Do you know the game 'Pick Up'?” Mycroft asked, frowning around at the sitting room--and at the toys, crayons, and sippy cups that were now _everywhere_.

  
“Dat’s'not'ta game!”

  
“You just…that…you took four words, and turned them into one, do you realize that?”

  
“I’s smart like that,” Sherlock giggled, headbutting Mycroft’s shoulder. He liked headbutting things and, unlike his Daddy, his brother didn’t complain.

  
“Yes, you are…I’ll give you that,” Mycroft said as he quickly scooted the little yellow detective off of his lap before he could whinge anymore. “So you must be smart enough to realize that you and Jawn are both going to tidy up in here. You can either make a game of it, or make it boring and tedious…up to you.”

  
“Bu’ I don’t want tooooo!” Sherlock fussed as he collapsed into the vacant space Mycroft’s bum had left on the couch facedown, bottom up.

  
“There’s a difference between ‘want’ and ‘need’, Sherlock, and it’s certainly a ‘need’ in this case,” the older brother sniffed. He’d already been elbows deep in tears, snot, drool, powder, and nappies…he was NOT going to clean their place for them.

  
“...Wha’ is it?”

  
“Hm?”

  
“Wha’s the dur’fence?” Sherlock asked again, turning his face to the side to peek up at Mycroft with one eye.

  
“ ‘Want’ means instant gratification. ‘Need’ means delayed satisfaction.”

  
“Huh?” Sherlock sat up on his knees, and Mycroft could see that two of the snaps of his onesie had come undone in the throes of his flailing, causing it to ruck up on one side.

That, along with half a mop of curly hair hanging in his face, made him look adorably disheveled. Mycroft smirked; “Nothing; it means you’re going to clean up even if I have to tie you up in strings and manhandle you like a puppet.”

  
“P'nochio?” Sherlock asked, and then lifted his arms, the rest of him going boneless against the sofa. “Up, up!”

  
Mycroft huffed a sigh, his chin dropping to his chest. Of course the clever little prat was going to distract and misdirect in the hopes of getting out of cleaning up.

  
“I like the bit with the whale,” Jawn said absently, collecting toys from the floor and putting them gently into the toy box.

  
“Jawn! I'ma pup'it, Jawn.”

  
“The puppet needs to help, or else.”

  
Sherlock sighed before pushing himself to his feet. He picked up his cup and marched over and tried to hand it to Mycroft. “A'c c'ean.”

  
Mycroft scowled at him. It was difficult to know when Sherlock was being a shit, and when he was genuinely too small to understand. This instance seemed to be the former, so he acted accordingly. “That goes in the sink,” he said, turning Sherlock and sending him on his way with a swat. “As well as any others that you can find.”

  
Sherlock grunted and took two dramatic steps forward, as if he would have fallen flat on his face otherwise. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, cup still clutched in both hands. “But there aren’t any more!” he whinged.

  
“Your nose is growing. There’s three more right where I can see them.”

  
“But there’s nooooooooooot!”

  
“Little boys who whinge–”

  
“There’s a gol’fish in that movie!”

  
Mycroft stopped in mid-sentence and looked back down at Jawn, who was making sure the rest of his plastic dinosaurs were safely sitting on top of the other toys, off to one side of the toy box. “…What movie?”

  
Jawn giggled; “You look like Sher’yock does when his brain stops.”

  
Mycroft decided to ignore that. “What movie?”

  
“ ‘Nochio! They has’da fish, too!”

  
“Oh. Right.” Truthfully, Mycroft hadn’t seen the movie in 40 years (at least), and had no idea what Jawn was talking about. He turned back to Sherlock; “As I was saying, little boys who–-oh, fuck’sakes,” he muttered.

  
Sherlock was gone.

  
Mycroft scrubbed a hand over his face; “...What’s the record in this flat for most spankings in a day?”

  
Jawn chewed his thumb in thought. “Sher'yock gotted three in one day. Two from me and one from Nana.”

  
“Fantastic. It’s not even suppertime and we’re well on our way,” Mycroft said, false cheer hanging from every word as he headed down the hallway towards the unmistakable sound of the water running in the bathtub.

  
Taking several deep, slow breaths, Mycroft turned into the bathroom--and found his little brother sat, fully clothed, in the rapidly filling tub, drawing on the tile with his bath crayons. Floating amongst the bubbles and bath toys, were several sippy cups.

  
“...What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  
Sherlock startled at his brothers voice, and dropped his crayon in the water. “Uh oh!” he chirped, digging under the bubbles.

  
“I asked you a question, little boy.”

  
“C'eaning! See, My?” Sherlock beamed up at Mycroft as he held a bubble covered sippy cup for his brother to see. “A'w c'ean!”

  
...How.

  
How could he possibly stay the right amount of stern, when met with a little face like _that_?

  
Mycroft quickly reminded himself that this meant he was going to have to change yet another nappy, as well as another set of clothes. He began to roll up his sleeve; “I told you to put the sippy cups in the sink…is this the sink, Sherlock?”

  
Sherlock nodded; “Big sink!” he giggled, clapping his bubble-covered hands together and sending suds in several directions.

  
“Is…this…the sink…William…Sherlock…Scott…Holmes.”

  
The little detective’s face fell immediately, and Mycroft detected a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “…My’coff?” he asked in a tiny voice, a voice that matched the way he was physically shrinking into himself.

  
Mycroft shook his head; “No, don’t ‘My’coff’ me…you knew what you were doing was a no-no.” He stooped and reached into the tub to find the plug, pulled it out, then reached for an increasingly worried little detective and lifted him out, as well.

“…My’coff?!”

  
Ignoring the plea, the older man lifted Sherlock out of the tub, set him on his feet, and (while swatting frantic hands out of the way) unsnapped the soaking wet onesie, popped open the tape on the equally sodden nappy and let it hit the floor with a heavy * ** _splat_** *, then proceeded to set a wet little bum on fire with a short flurry of sharp smacks.

  
Too stunned to do more than yelp in shock, the little detective stomped his feet as a dozen swats lit his still smarting bottom back to a fierce heat.

  
Taking a hold of Sherlock’s shoulders once he was done, Mycroft turned the weepy little boy to face him and deftly caught a wrist and its soapy hand before it could be rubbed against a teary eye.

“S..sss...sorry, M-my..My’coff!” Sherlock stammered in between sniffles, his free hand going back to rub his stinging bottom.

  
Mycroft’s hard expression fell. Popular opinion to contrary, he really wasn’t a brute. “It’s alright. But I need you to listen to me.”

  
“L….list’nen,” Sherlock nodded emphatically, pressing himself against Mycroft’s front and burying his nose in his older brother’s neck.

Mycroft huffed a sigh and let one more swat fall as he felt the damp from Sherlock’s onesie seep through his own trousers. “I would much prefer if you listened BEFORE you were spanked,” he said, and  dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s temple as the little detective snuffled his agreement into Mycroft’s shirt collar.

  
“We will get you changed, and then _you_ will clean up this mess. Am. I. Clear.”

  
“Yesss'sir.” Sherlock slurred, leaning heavily into Mycroft as the older man half walked, half carried him into the nursery.

  
Sherlock, still sniffling and whimpering, climbed up onto the bed and lay on his back without having to be prompted, and Mycroft felt a slight twinge of guilt that he had to ask him to sit up so they could take off his soaking wet onesie. “I know, it’s no fun sitting on a sore bottom,” he said over the little detective’s whinging as the outfit was pulled over his head. “But it wouldn’t be sore if you had only listened to me and not made a bigger mess in the first place, would it?”

  
Sherlock nodded up at him tearfully, his bottom lip quivering.

  
“Shhh, I know…worst part’s over now,” Mycroft spoke quietly, then kissed his little brother on the forehead before putting a hand on his shoulder and making him lie back, stark naked.

  
Now that Sherlock was starting to calm down, Mycroft turned and gathered a dry nappy, powder, and a simple soft, baby-blue cotton shirt to change him into.

  
“…Sher’yock?…My’coff?”

  
Mycroft turned to find Jawn standing in the doorway…well, partly standing, partly hanging onto the door frame and looking apprehensive.

  
Mycroft nodded his head in Sherlock’s direction; “Go on; I know you want to.”

  
Jawn was across the room in an instant and clambering up on top of the bed, plopping himself right next to where Sherlock lay. The little detective watched him quietly, his thumb now tucked firmly in his mouth (apparently the suds weren’t an issue).

  
“Hi, Sher’yock,” Jawn whispered…he didn’t know why he was whispering, but the atmosphere of the room made whispering seem to be the right thing.

  
Sherlock sniffled up at him and started to mumble a reply around his thumb when a hiccup bubbled its way out instead, making his chest hitch.

  
John gaped at him for a moment, then began to giggle. “Sher’yock has hic’um’ups!” he said, looking back at Mycroft as if this were the best news in the world.

  
Sherlock hiccuped again.

  
Mycroft wished he didn’t have nappy cream all over his hand, so he could reach his bloody phone.

  
  Arecently smacked bottom kept Sherlock from doing more than pout around his thumb as Jawn babbled happily. “C'ute baby. My'coff. My baby a c'ute baby,” Jawn crooned, gently rubbing Sherlock’s hitching chest as if hiccuping was the greatest, most clever thing Sherlock had ever done.

The praise made his cheeks warm and his heart beat a bit faster, and also made other “feelings” start to happen. ‘feelings’ that should be strictly avoided with Mycroft’s hands pulling a nappy over his bits. “ 'Uck, Jawn.” Sherlock grimaced as he showed Jawn his saliva damp thumb, hoping to stop the barrage of praise. “''Uck.”

“Yea, drool is gross,” Jawn said, eyeing the thumb while still rubbing lazy circles on Sherlock's chest.

“Noooo, tas’ Jawn. ‘Uck!”

“Tas’ bad?”

“Soap!”

“Sher'yock said bad words?” Jawn gasped, staring at Mycroft with huge eyes.

“What?” Mycroft looked up from the t-shirt he’d been turning over in his hands--the confounding thing didn’t appear to have a seam that indicated ‘right side out’. He supposed it didn’t matter. Then he helped Sherlock sit up, tutting when he whinged about his sore bum. “Bad words? I don’t recall Sherlock saying any bad words, not in any sort of language.” Mycroft pulled the shirt down over Sherlock’s head, ignoring the small fuss he put up as it went over his face. “Did Sherlock use bad words?” he asked pointedly, looking down his nose at his little brother.

  
Sherlock pouted and quickly shook his head, making his curls bounce.

  
“Then why his thumb tas’ soap?” Jawn piped in.

  
“His hands were covered in soap, and he decided to suck his thumb before I could clean them. He soaped his own mouth this time,” Mycroft said, drawing Sherlock into a hug and a quick kiss on the forehead before turning him back to the door. “And now, he has a mess to clean up while Jawn gets a treat.”

  
Jawn’s eyes lit up but, before he could reply, Sherlock looked over his own shoulder; “…Me too?” he asked hopefully.

  
Mycroft shook his head. “No, sorry lad…Jawn is getting one because he listened the first time, and cleaned up most of the mess on his own.”

  
Sherlock’s pout returned. “B-but, but I…!”

  
“No. Your job now is to go clean up all the water from off the floor, rinse the bubbles out of the tub, and to bring all the sippy-cups into the kitchen.”

  
Sherlock’s chin dimpled and looked as if he were about to start bawling and stomping his feet all over again, but...well, being in little more than just a nappy with the most sensitive parts of his legs and lower bum cheeks exposed, he knew better. With a sniffle and a whinge, he whirled around and stomped off to the bathroom.

  
Mycroft sighed and glanced down at Jawn, who was cuddling up next to him and looking up at him expectantly, but still patient. “Now then...where’s this so-called ‘prize bucket’ your Sher’yock was bragging about weeks ago?”

  
“I can have a treasure?!” Jawn asked, his mouth a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment.

  
“Yes, of course. Good boys earn rewards.” Mycroft ran an affectionate hand through Jawn’s short hair. “Can you show me the ‘prize bucket’?”

  
Jawn was up and out the door like a shot, his whole body practically vibrating with energy.

 

Mycroft followed at a more leisurely pace, pausing in the doorway of the bathroom to check on Sherlock. The little detective was on his knees, mopping water off the floor with several hand towels.

  
“Make sure those go in the hamper, Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft tutted over his shoulder as he made his way into the kitchen, ignoring the indignant huff of a grumpy little boy. He rounded the corner into the kitchen to find Jawn standing on his tip toes on a chair that he had pushed up against the refrigerator.

Jawn crowed as he caught the handle of the bucket and swung it off the top of the refrigerator. He turned and hopped off the chair, ignoring Mycroft’s proffered hand and cocked eyebrow.

  
The much coveted ‘prize bucket’ was a plastic purple pail, covered in cartoon skulls--Nana had given it to them last Halloween, full of sweeties, and now it held an assortment of small toys and 'treasures’ as well as sweets.

  
Jawn set it reverently on the kitchen table before digging through the wares with both hands to find the 'treasure’ he was looking for.

  
Mycroft watched those weathered little hands closely. “Only _one_ , Jawn–” he began, and was cut off by a triumphant whoop as the little doctor held a clenched fist high.

  
Mycroft was instantly (and rightly so) suspicious. A simple piece of candy couldn’t have garnered such a response…could it? They’d both had piles of ice cream earlier in the day, after all. He looked down into the pail and saw an assortment of candies, stickers, balloons, little decorative hair clips (…hair clips?…), colourful rubber balls, toy cars, sticky-looking things shaped like insects…what on earth could be that special?

  
_***PHHHHHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!***_

  
Mycroft nearly jumped out of his skin and covered his ears against the shrill, eardrum-piercing, teeth-shattering noise, and whipped his head up to see Jawn with a metal whistle in his mouth and both cheeks expanded as much as they possibly could be. “ **JAWN**!” he shouted over the noise.

  
The noise stopped immediately, and Mycroft slowly uncovered his ears.

 

“...Yes, My’coff?” Jawn peeped, as innocent as you please.

  
“That, is an outdoor toy,” Mycroft grumbled, glaring daggers.

  
There came a rapid thumping from the hallway as Sherlock dashed into the room, his arms full of dripping wet but bubble-free cups. “NO! No no no nonononononononono, that’s mine!”

  
“Is’not!” Jawn clutched it to his chest, and Mycroft groaned out loud at the thought of another ‘green crayon’ argument.

  
“Is’so! I hid it at the bottom for me!”

  
“...Hided it?” Jawn said slowly, his eyebrows drawing together.

  
“Cause it’s mines and you can’t have it,” Sherlock went on, stomping his foot, oblivious to the storm brewing on the little doctor’s face.

  
“Sherlock, Jawn can choose whatever prize he’d like.”

  
“No, he cannot. He cannot pick my whi’thle!”

  
“You’re a cheater,” Jawn growled.

 

Sherlock had the good sense to look ashamed for a moment before sticking out his chin. “Am not!”

  
“Cheater!”

  
“Jawn,” Mycroft interrupted, suddenly more tired than he’d felt in years. “What are you talking about?”

  
“Sher’yock said I had to pick my treasure from the top las’ time!”

  
“It’s my whi’thle!” Sherlock shouted.

  
“You are never getting a treasure again!” Jawn snapped, pointing a menacing finger at the little detective.

  
“You can’t do that! You promised!” Sherlock cried, the fight going out of him as his shoulders slumped.

  
“I can’t believe--well, I can believe it, actually. Why did you even put it in there if you didn’t want me to have it?” Jawn asked, his anger slipping in the face of Sherlock’s tears.

  
“Why purchase it at all?” Mycroft scoffed, settling himself at the kitchen table, chin in hand. They were better than a daytime soap opera.

  
Sherlock slumped down to the floor, legs splayed out in front of him and looking quite the pitiful sight indeed. “ ‘Cause,” he sniffled, wiping his nose across the back of his hand; “ ‘cause Jawn earns more treats than I do. All’a good prizes always get taken first.”

  
Jawn’s mouth opened in an ‘O’ of surprise and Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but stayed the part of the silent observer…at least for now. “No I don’t!”

  
Sherlock looked up at him tearfully. “Th’ whi’thle was gonna be my first pick…I haven’t even gotten a prize since we filled it up last time!”

  
“...Oh.” Jawn considered the little metal whistle in his hand--it _had_ been awhile since he could last remember letting Sherlock pick a prize…but that wasn’t really his fault. “Well, you just gotta try harder, like me.”

  
“Jawn,” Mycroft said quietly, eyes on his little brother.

  
Jawn paused, whistle back at his lips, to glance down at Sherlock.

 

The little detective sat on the floor, hugging damp sippy cups to his heaving chest as he struggled to keep from sobbing.

  
“...Sher’yock?”

  
“I do believe that once those cups go into the sink, that Sherlock has done enough cleaning up to have earned a prize. What do you think, Jawn?”

  
“Yea. But he can’t have mines,” Jawn said with a decisive nod before putting the whistle back in his mouth and taking a deep breath--

 

**_*PHHWWEEEETTT*_ **

**_*PHHWWEEEETTT*_ **

**_*PHWWWWW--*_ **

 

"HEY! Tha's MINE!” Jawn turned to glare at Mycroft, who was putting the whistle into the pocket of his waistcoat.

  
“What did I tell you when you first picked your prize?” Mycroft ignored the heat in the little doctor’s gaze and offered a hand to help Sherlock to his feet.

  
“You said I can have a treasure and I want that one! You can’t take it back a’cause Sher’yock cried! Thas na’ fair!” It was Jawn’s turn to stomp his foot, arms crossed over his narrow chest.

  
“I told you that it was a toy for outdoors. Are we outdoors, Jawn?” Mycroft asked, his eyebrow cocked.

  
“No," groused the little doctor, glaring at the floor.

  
“If you’d like, you can pick a different prize until the next time you play outside.”

  
“I wan’ my whistle,” Jawn grumbled again, but walked over to the prize bucket anyway.

  
After dropping his armload of cups in the sink, Sherlock popped a free thumb in his mouth and joined him, coming to stand at Mycroft’s side and lean against him while looking down at the load of colorful little trinkets and treats.

  
Mycroft shook the bucket, moving some of the bottom prizes to the top in hopes of avoiding another scene.

 

Sherlock began to reach for something, but Jawn’s hand darted in first and snagged a little green (naturally) toy car that would zip forward after being rolled backwards. “This an outside toy?” he asked, eyeing Mycroft suspiciously.

  
“No, but I’m not fetching it out if you lose it under the refrigerator. Go ahead and pick, Sherlock.” He was eager to put the bucket back up and remove the source of conflict.

  
Sherlock craned his neck to peer into it again, then made a slow, deliberate reach and came out with a miniature bottle of scented bubbles. He held it up for his brother to see and made a small noise around his thumb; “Hm?”

  
“Those are fine,” Mycroft said with a nod, scooping the bucket up and putting it back on top of the refrigerator.

  
“Bubba’s not a outside toy but whistle is?” Jawn sassed, moving his green car in lazy figure eights on the table top.

  
“All toys that are capable of noise at that decibel belong outdoors. Everything else is negotiable,” Mycroft said, ignoring the attitude.

  
“Bubba’s, Jawn.” Sherlock showed him the tiny bottle with a watery smile, eager to make friends again.

  
“What flavour?"

  
“Bubb'a gum!”

  
“Let’s go back into the sitting room. We can watch another film while you play with your treasures.”

  
“My turn!” Jawn zipped out of the kitchen and into the sitting room to begin rifling through DVD's.

  
Mycroft rubbed his little brother’s arm, half expecting a strop over whose turn it really was, but instead Sherlock watched Jawn for a moment before pushing his ‘bubbas’ into his big brother’s hand. “Open, My? P’ease open?”

  
“Yes, and those are very good manners, thank you,” Mycroft said as he ushered the nappied little boy into the other room. “But _I'll_ hold the bottle, understand?”

  
Sherlock nodded emphatically and waited until Mycroft sat down before settling at his brother’s feet. “Uh-huh…bubba’s!” he chattered, bouncing excitedly while he watched the man tear off the perforated plastic wrapping.

  
“What movie are you picking, Jawn?”

  
Jawn walked over and flopped down onto the couch next to Mycroft. “You’ll see!” he grinned, looking rather cheeky as he spun the wheels on his car.

  
Well, Mycroft didn’t know what to make of that. He waited for the menu to pop up but even then, he didn’t recognize it...yet it only took one note of the music for Sherlock to spin around and look, with a big, wide, grin splitting his face. “Dino’rawrs!” he said, clapping.

  
“…Dinosaurs?” Mycroft asked, puzzled…this didn’t look age-appropriate in the slightest.

  
“The second one’s the best!” Jawn piped in, pushing the ‘play’ button.

  
Within the first ten minutes, Mycroft could tell this wasn’t a child friendly film. Apparently, several of the dinosaurs at “Jurassic Park” had developed a taste for human flesh. “This needs to be turned off right now, Jawn,” Mycroft scowled--the little doctor had been pushing his luck all day.

 

“Dino'rawrs, My'coff!” Sherlock peeped, waving his tiny bubble wand at the screen.

 

“Yes, I see that. It’s still getting turned off.” Mycroft searched the sofa cushions for the remote Jawn had dropped.

 

“We like this movie!” Jawn huffed as he not-so-stealthily hid the remote behind his back.

 

“When you’re grown-ups you can watch all the gore you please, but while you’re little boys…”

 

“Look, My'coff, look!” Sherlock’s hands were on his cheeks and gently guided his face back to the screen. “Dino'rawrs!!!”

 

“Yes, I see,” Mycroft said again, tilting away from Sherlock’s hand to avoid taking a bubble wand to the eye. On the screen, a man had just been dragged through a waterfall and presumably eaten…well, _obviously_ eaten, as it was now raining heavily blood-tinted water. “Jawn, give me the remote, please.”

  
“Whhhhhyyyyyy?!” Jawn whinged, hand still behind his back.

  
“This is far too graphic…”

  
“Bu’ Sher’yock ain’t bo'vvered! I ain’t bo'vvered!”

  
"This is not appropriate for little minds. Give me the remote.”

  
“Myyyyyyyy’cooooofffff, you’re meeeeeeeeaaaan!”

  
“You haven’t seen anything yet. Give me the remote, before I get up and turn it off myself…and that will be the end of **any** movies for the rest of the evening.”

  
Jawn scowled at him, then slammed the remote down into Mycroft’s waiting hand before crossing his arms and flopping back against the couch with a disgusted groan.

  
Mycroft didn’t even flinch at the hostility.

 

“Bu’…dino’rawrs, My’coff?” Sherlock asked, looking over at Jawn worriedly.

  
“Shh, keep playing with your bubbles,” Mycroft replied, and held down the little bottle for Sherlock to reach--while he didn’t cut the movie completely off, he made sure to fast-forward and skip the more, er, _unsavory_ parts.


	9. "Y'abbits!!!", by Jawn Wa'dson; alternatively, "I'm Too Old For This", by Mycroft Holmes

  
“Rexie is the best of the dino’rawrs and--” Jawn chattered away as he followed Mycroft into the kitchen to refill their cups with juice; he'd spent the ‘i’m not scared, you’re scared’ bits of the film with his nose buried in Mycroft’s neck and, in the process, had decided to be friends with him again.

“Yes. She was very impressive," Mycroft said, glancing into the sitting room to check on the little detective. Sherlock was where Mycroft had left him, laying on the floor playing with his feet. “How often is Sherlock this tiny?”

“Sher’yock na’ tiny, My’coff. He’s b’ery tall," Jawn giggled. 

Mycroft bit his tongue to keep a retort about hobbits at bay. Now that Jawn had warmed back up to him, it wouldn’t do to stir the pot. “So he is. But he’s very young right now.”

Jawn walked to the doorway of the sitting room and stared down at the little detective. “Yea. He’s not a big boy like us.”

“Jawn.” Mycroft could feel a headache building behind his left eye. He scrunched it closed to try and stem the pain. “How often is Sherlock this young?”

Jawn ignored him again and bounced over to where Sherlock lay, then knelt at his head and leaned over him, staring at him upside down.

Sherlock, who’d been chewing on the knuckle of his thumb, stopped and stared back up at Jawn, waiting to see what he was going to do.

Mycroft set the container of juice down, also watching and waiting (and getting ready to intervene if needed).

Jawn held up his hand, pointer finger extended, hovering above Sherlock’s face…then jabbed the little detective square on the nose, making him go cross-eyed. “BEEP!”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he clasped both hands over his nose.

‘ _Oh God, here we go,_ ’ Mycroft thought. He strode over to the pair, fully anticipating the moment when Sherlock would burst into tears (and he couldn’t really blame him this time; that jab had looked hard from all the way across the room!), when the overgrown tyke surprised both of them by dissolving in huge, gut-busting belly laughs. “ ‘gain! ‘gain!” he chanted, moving his hands out of the way and Jawn, grinning like the Joker in a pack of cards, poked him again.

“BEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEP!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes; there was no predicting these two. No rhyme nor reason, no method to the madness. “Not so hard, Jawn,” he said, and went to retrieve their cups. He’d have to try asking later, when one or the other aged up a bit.

“Bee’, bee’, bee’,” Sherlock chanted back, reaching up to poke at Jawn’s nose causing the little Doctor to fall over in a giggle fit. They laid on the carpet poking at each other’s faces.

“Is there paracetamol in this flat?” Mycroft asked, not really expecting an answer. 

The beeping was steadily growing in volume.

“Baf'room!” Jawn chirped, leaning in to lick Sherlock’s nose instead of poke it. “Boop.”

Sherlock froze in place, hand inches from Jawn’s nose as he processed his damp nose. Sensing the impending doom, and unwilling to leave them on their own again after the last time, Mycroft came into the sitting room and pulled them to their feet. "I’ll never be able to find it on my own. I need the world’s greatest detective’s to find it for me.” Mycroft tried to usher them toward the bathroom, but it was like wrangling cats. 

Jawn squirmed around him and made to the stairs. "Sher'yock needs his hat!”

“Nooooooo hat!” Sherlock cried, covering his head with his hands.

“Sherlock does not need his hat, and Jawn does not need to climb those stairs!…JAWN.”

The little doctor froze, one foot already on the bottom step, and looked at Mycroft over his shoulder.

“Neither of you are allowed on the steps while you’re little.”

“But–“

“I said no.”

Jawn took a step back, and stomped his foot. “But My! He needs it!”

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, who still had his fingers locked together over his head. “He doesn’t want it.”

Jawn’s face began to grow red, and he stomped both feet until he’d turned in a complete circle. “But **MY**...!”

Sherlock clutched the back of his brother’s waistcoat in a tight fist and watched the goings’on while quietly sucking his thumb, not wanting to draw attention on himself. 

Mycroft sighed, and rubbed his temple. This one was going to be a doozey. “Jawn, one more time, and I will spank your bum.” Hell, Sherlock had already earned two on his own, why not go for a three-fur?! Still…Mycroft held out his hand; “Come on, Jawn…help us look.”

Jawn stared at Mycroft’s outstretched hand for a moment before puffing his chest and turning to take the stairs two at a time.

“JAWN HAMISH! You stop this instant!” Mycroft shouted, untangling Sherlock’s grip on his waist coat to hurry after the little piss pot. “Stay here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes large and wet.

Mycroft, having the advantage of stork-like legs, caught the little doctor by the arm before he turned the corner on the second landing. 

Jawn let out a banshee wail and proceeded to go limp, hanging from Mycroft’s grip like a rag doll.

“Oh no, I think not!” Mycroft growled, hefting Jawn up and over his shoulder in one fluid motion, causing the wailing little doctor to shriek again. A sharp swat to the back of his leg cut him off.

“OWWWW, MY! You can’t do that! You’re not my Da’.” Jawn whinged, struggling to get out of Mycroft’s vice-like grip.

“Little. Boy." Mycroft punctuated each word with another swat as he carefully made his way back down the stairs. “You are about to learn where your “Da’” learned all his meanest techniques.”

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes like saucers as he watched Mycroft haul Jawn down, smacking him the entire way while the little doctor squealed like a trapped animal and tried to kick out at anything in his path. When his older brother breezed past, Sherlock unglued himself from the bannister and scurried along after. “My?” he asked worriedly. “My, what doing? My? My’coff?”

“Jawn is eager to join the ‘Sore Bottom’ Club,” Mycroft muttered, ignoring the hands pounding at his back. He waltzed into the kitchen and used his foot to hook one of the chair legs and turned it around, facing away from the table, and sat down heavily. With as much grace as a Russian-trained dancer, Mycroft slid Jawn off of his shoulder and laid him flat across his lap, where he noted that this was going to be much easier than disciplining his long-limbed little brother. “And Sherlock needs to go watch the rest of his dinosaur movie, please.”

Jawn, who had not once let up on making his displeasure of the whole circumstance known, now kicked it into high gear…it was getting more real by the moment. “I didn’ do annnnnnnnnythiiiiiiiiing!” he screeched, red-faced, and pounded his fists against Mycroft’s thigh. When that didn’t work, he bit him, with all of the impotent rage a giant toddler could muster.

“ _ **Aw**_!” Mycroft hissed as he dropped several heavy swats on the backs on Jawns thighs. 

The little doctor immediately released his hold on Mycroft’s leg to wail.

“Do you know what happens to little boys who bite, Jawn?” Mycroft asked, while undoing the snaps that ran along the crotch and inseam of Jawn’s onesie.”They get their very naughty little mouths soaped. What a wonderful thing to look forward to!” Mycroft snarked, pulling Jawn’s onesie up his back and using it as leverage.

“My?” Sherlock stood beside Mycroft, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Gotsa’ be nice a’ my Jawn,” he said, nearly too quietly to be heard over the racket Jawn himself was making.

“Enforcing the rules is kindness.”

“My’coff…” Sherlock tugged on his sleeve; “P'ease, My’coff, no ‘pank Jawn?”

Mycroft had untaped Jawn’s nappy and let the dry bit of fluff hit the floor. He rested a large hand on the curve of Jawn’s bottom that stilled him completely.  
“Sherlock,” he said softly, but firmly; “...go finish your dinosaur movie.”

The little detective sniffled pitifully; “Bye, Jawn," he whispered as he walked very slowly back into the sitting room.

The little doctor’s thighs were already covered in handprints and burning terribly, and the spanking hadn’t even begun yet. He craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, sniffling pitifully now that all his protection and bluster were gone. “My’coff? I’m sorry, I’m really, really, _really_ sorry!” he pleaded.

“While that’s good to hear, I highly doubt it’s the truth at the moment.” Mycroft brought his hand back and slapped it down with a crisp **SMACK**! against Jawn’s backside, eliciting a howl from him. Mycroft paused for a moment and shook out his hand; after two spankings and an uncountable numbers of random swats, he was feeling as much as Jawn and Sherlock were. 

Not to mention the little doctor’s bum was more muscled than his little partner in crimes’.

But, back to the task at hand, so to speak. “You’ve been testing my limits all day, little boy…you would think seeing it happen to Sherlock twice would have been enough of a deterrent, but nooooo!…” he scolded, swatting all over the little gremlin’s bouncing bottom.

If Mycroft had thought Sherlock was a little drama queen, then Jawn really took the cake! He kicked and howled and blubbered like a man on fire, and not for the first time, the older man found himself thanking several different deities that he had nearly a foot of leverage over the compact little piston in his lap. He proceeded to turn Jawn’s bum a uniform shade of scarlet. 

The squalling little imp quickly wore himself out, going limp over Mycroft’s lap, babbling nonsense. While it was likely apologies and please for mercy, Mycroft could swear the little Doctor was placing a complicated curse on him.

Pausing to rub his own stinging palm against his trousers; “Jawn. What was this spanking for?”

“B-ba’ ba’ ba'--!"

“No. Jawn is not bad. However, Jawn has had very naughty behavior.”

“B-b'hav'r-r!"

“Exactly.” Mycroft added a swat to Jawn’s sit spot. It wouldn’t do to leave this lesson half learned. “Jawn will use his listening ears from now on. When Mycroft says ‘no’, he means ‘no’.”

“B..bbb'hav'rrr," Jawn sniffled, using a small fist the scrub at his eyes.

“Yes, Jawn will have better behavior. Are we going to need to do this again?”

“Noooooooooooo, good! Be good! P'mise!”

Mycroft almost felt sorry for him…

Almost. Until he remembered the bite.

“And that goes double if you bite me ever again, young man,” he fussed and swatted him twice more, right under the swell of each cheek. 

Jawn let out a singular, mournful wail, and hung his head, sobbing.

But, Mycroft was not a completely heartless man…just a dutiful one when it came to necessary measures. He sat and rubbed Jawn’s back (and his bum, just a bit) while he let him cry it out, and waited until the little doctor had regained a bit of composure before helping him sit up and straddle his lap. He held Jawn steady around the waist, and asked him; “…Are we done with the defiant attitude today?”

Jawn was quite the wreck; all red eyes and ruddy cheeks, face covered in tears, nose running…heartbroken. “Y-yeah,” he sputtered, wiping at his face with the backs of his hands. “P-p’om, p’om-mise.”

“Good boy.” Mycroft kissed one of the only dry spots on the little boys’ face, on his forehead, and wrapped him in a huge hug.

Now that 95% of the noise had been cut out, Mycroft heard the slight creak of the floorboards and didn’t have to look up to know exactly what it was. “Alright,” he sighed. “You too…come here.”

Sherlock hurried over, his own cheeks tearstained, and crowded in on Jawn’s other side, surrounding him in snuggles.

Mycroft really, really needed that paracetamol now. “Alright. Up now," he said, gently trying to scoot the little Doctor of his lap.

“Noooo, no, no, no.” Jawn erupted in gulping sobs, clinging to Mycroft. “No bubba’s, Mycoff! P'ease no bubba’s.”

“What?” Mycroft asked, and looked to Sherlock for help...but the little detective had gone all wobbly himself, sniffling around his thumb.

Mycroft squeezed Jawn tight, rubbing his back in firm strokes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jawn.” They stayed snuggled up for a moment while the little Doctor quieted under the petting.

He nudged Jawn back a bit and placed a hand on his cheek to get the baby to face him. “What is it that you don’t want?”

“No bubba’s, p'eeeeaaase," Jawn whimpered, patting his own lips.

“Oh…oh!” Mycroft squished him close again. “No, Jawn’s punishment is finished...however, if Jawn bites anyone ever again, he will get his mouth soaped. Understand?”

“Yea," Jawn sighed, turning to mush in Mycroft’s lap, now that the tension of uncertainty was gone.

“Sherlock, be a lad and hand me Jawn’s nappy, please,” Mycroft said, patting the little doctor’s trembling back. Might as well take care of that now, while he was sitting on him and clinging tighter than a leech.

“N-nn-no, n-no,” Jawn cried meekly as Sherlock fetched the hastily discarded garment from the floor, and handed it over. “N-no, no t-touch!”

“Shhhh.” Mycroft slid it between Jawn’s parted legs. “I know it hurts, but you’re not going around naked, little boy…I won’t be cleaning up any mystery puddles.”

“I, I, I woooon’t,” Jawn hiccuped.

“I know you won’t, because we’re putting your nappy on. See, all finished.” Mycroft stretched the last tape in place, and pressed it down firmly to secure it. “All done,” he said, lightly patting Jawn’s thigh. “Now let me up…I need to figure out something to feed you two.”

“M’not hungry,” Jawn replied sullenly, not making any move to get up from Mycrofts’ lap.

“You’re both going to eat. And not junk…not after gorging yourselves on greasy chips and ice cream at lunch.” Mycroft took Jawn’s arms and unwrapped them from his waist, then eased him down from his lap, much to the little fair-haired boy’s dismay. “There’s going to be something green and leafy on your plates this time.”

Jawn immediately stopped his fussing and dangled from Mycroft’s arms like a little monkey, blinking up at him. “…G’een?” he asked.

Mycroft turned him towards Sherlock, so he could latch on to someone else. “Yes, green.” He should have known that would be a magic mute button. “What else would you like?”

“Path’ta?” Sherlock spoke up, holding a rubbery-knee’d Jawn under the arms like a ragdoll. “P’ease?” he added.

“Perfect.” Mycroft rolled up his sleeves and began to rummage through the cupboards for ingredients. 

A bottle of paracetamol rolled out from behind a jar of tomato sauce and bounced off the counter and onto the floor.

“Thank God. Sherlock, please pick that up for me?” Mycroft put two pots on the stove top and started the sauce. One didn’t get a reputation for being chubby without knowing how to cook.

Sherlock patted Jawn’s shoulder before crawling under the table to retrieve the bottle of pills. 

Jawn stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock’s rump wiggling beneath the table. One thumb was in his mouth and his other hand was rubbing his sore bum.

“Jawn.”

The little doctor startled and looked up.

“Can you fetch the salad from the fridge?” Mycroft smiled into the pot as the little doctor moved to obey. While he dearly loved their boisterousness, he definitely could get used to this.

“Myc!” Sherlock shook the bottle of medication in front on Mycroft’s nose.

Well, sort of used to this. “Yes, good boy. Can you, very carefully, get big brother a glass for water?”

Sherlock blinked up at him, wide-eyed and attentive. “Cup?” he asked, nodding, and scurried off to another cabinet. “Cup! Cup, cup, cup, cup…” he chanted and, opening the one that contained all of their sippy-cups and bottles, selected one for Mycroft and brought it back “Cup!” He held it up proudly.

Mycroft gave him a tight smile, and took it anyway. Well, he did ask him. And all things considering, he was better off handling plastic in any case. He tapped the spoon he was using to stir against the pot, knocking off any extra sauce, then set it aside. “Good boy, thank you,” he said, taking the cup and turning towards the sink to fill it. “Now, can you be a love and pick out bibs for yourself and Jawn?” Best to keep them busy until it was time to sit down and eat. 

Sherlock scampered off, pleased enough to be helping, and Mycroft popped the plastic cap on the pills. “Jawn,” he said, shaking out two pills and tossing them back into his mouth. “Did you get the salad?”

No answer.

‘ _Damnit_.’ He took a mouthful of cold water and swallowed. “Jawn.”

No answer. And Sherlock was giggling.

“Jawn…” Mycroft took around, expecting the worst…and saw Jawn sitting on the floor, fridge door wide open, and eating the slices of carrot from the bag of pre-mixed salad. Okay, not the worst. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the worried-looking little boy; “…I thought you said you weren’t hungry, you little thief. Get out of Mr. McGregor’s garden!” he said, and playfully snagged the bag from him.

“G'eg garden?” Jawn asked, munching his last pilfered carrot.

“Mr. McGregor. You’ve never read Peter Rabbit?” Mycroft frowned as he put on a pot of water to boil.

“G'eg a’ My'coff gar’en is nice.” Sherlock hunkered down in front of Jawn and showed him the bibs he’d picked out. “Pick, Jawn.”

The little Doctor looked seriously between them before shyly selecting one covered in tiny bunnies. “Y'abbit ina gar’en, Sher'yock.” Jawn tipped his head and smiled at Sherlock through his lashes, hamming for all he was worth. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but tied the bib on him. “I put on Jawn’s bib," Sherlock announced, hopping up to stand next to Mycroft.

“Thank you. Can you put on your own?”

“I can help,” Sherlock looked around quickly for something to do..."Plates!”

“No.” Mycroft caught his arm and tugged him away from the cupboard full of glassware.

“I’m helping.” Sherlock peeped innocently, staring wide eyed at Mycroft.

“You can help by putting on your bib.”

“But I–”

“You are being extremely helpful, yes, and you can keep helping…after you put your bib on, please.”

There was something in the way that his older brother had said ‘please’ that made Sherlock look away from him, down to where he still held his arm in a firm, but not painful grip. Then he glanced over at Jawn who, while having almost completely calmed down, was still ruddy-cheeked and raspy-voiced.

Sherlock looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze again, and nodded. “ ‘kay,” he agreed.

“Good boy,” Mycroft replied, releasing his grip. “Put your bib on, and I’ll let you set yours’ and Jawn’s places, yes?”

“My’coff eat?”

“Yes, I plan on eating,” he said, turning back to the simmering pots. “But I can take care of my plate.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment while he chewed on the knuckle of his thumb, and realized that these were probably the only choices he was going to get…at least if he wanted to keep helping. “‘kay,” he said again, brightly. “I do it! See, My’coff?!” He picked up the second bib (which he’d known Jawn wouldn’t pick, as he wasn’t as fond of Winnie the Pooh as the little detective was) and tore the velcro tabs apart, putting it around his neck. “See?!”

“Yes, I see, wonderful job,” Mycroft said without turning around, and poured the box of mini-rigatoni into the boiling water. Some things never changed…including his brothers’ need to be praised. Oh, well…he was more than glad to indulge him.

Sherlock beamed, rocking on his toes.

“Sherlock and Jawn need plates for little boys. Can you get two little boy plates?” Mycroft asked, glancing at his little brother with an encouraging smile.

“Plates! Jawn wants a plate and I want a plate, and we can have pasta’s on our plate.” Sherlock sing-song'ed as he pulled open a different cupboard and began to riffle through plastic dinnerware.

“G’een, Sher’yock?” Jawn peeped. He’d scooted his bum across the floor and was half in the sitting room, playing with an action figure he’d found wedged behind his chair.

“A’course, Jawn.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, the word ‘obvious’ heavily implied. “Turtles or f’wogs?”

The arm of his action figure drifted into his mouth as he thought about it, mouthing the words around the plastic. “F’wog.”

“Please.” Mycroft prompted, draining the pasta in the sink.

  
“P’ease, f’wogs. ‘Fank you.”

“Jawn gots good manners!” Sherlock took down a plate covered in bees for himself and surreptitiously pulled down a plate covered in cupcakes for his My’coff. He put the plates on the table and moved to the drawer they kept the flatware in. “Jawn needs baby fork, but I can have a big boy fork?”

“No, you’ll be getting–YOU’LL BE USING A LITTLE FORK, AS WELL,” Mycroft finished, having to raise his voice over the protests of “I DON’T!” and “NOT A BABY!” from the little doctor. “Jawn, shush!”

Jawn quieted, but glared up at Sherlock all the same. “You a baby,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

“You’re both babies.” Mycroft stepped in before his little brother could respond and took the silverware from him. “You, go wash your hands,” he said as he placed them, then stopped short at the brightly-coloured confectionery plate that had been set aside for him. Mycroft gave Sherlock a dry look; “Hardy-har-har.”

Sherlock giggled and bounced over to the sink, thankfully unbothered that his job had been taken from him. “No want cake?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Very clever, little boy.” Mycroft traded it for an adult-sized one, as well as an adult-sized fork, and set his place again before taking the figure Jawn was gnawing on from him. Ignoring the indignant squawk, he lifted the little doctor from the floor and nudged him over to the sink, too. “Let Sherlock help you wash up,” he said, giving his still-warm bum a friendly pat as a ‘reminder’, before going to fill their plates.

Hopefully, serving them sauce wouldn’t come back to bite him in the arse this evening.

“Jawn, Jawn, Jawn! Soap on'a hands,” Sherlock sing-song'ed as he helped Jawn wash his hands. “Scrub, scrub, scrub. All c’ean, Jawn.”

Jawn gave him a filthy look and pulled his hands away before Sherlock could use the dish sponge on him.

“Come along, boys. It’s dinner time.” Mycroft sat himself at the middle place setting, scooping a bite of pasta into his mouth. He’d like to eat at least part of his meal while it was still warm, thank you very much.

Sherlock thundered over to the table and threw himself into his seat, still eager to please. “I’m sitting, My’coff.”

“Very good, Sherlock. Eat your dinner.”

Sherlock made a face at his plate. “I don’ wan’ it.”

“Jawn, come sit near me, lad. Your frogs are waiting.”

Jawn guiltily rushed to put his action figure behind his back.

“That’s fine, Jawn. Bring along your toy.”

“Na’ a toy, is GI Joe!”

“I can have toast, My’coff?” Sherlock pushed the rigatoni around his plate in large circles.

“You asked for pasta.”

“He thinks s’getti’o’s is pasta.” Jawn eased his bum in his chair, carefully settling GI Joe next to his plate.

“This is better than anything you’ll find in a can,” Mycroft replied, taking another bite of his own.

Sherlock’s pout deepened, and he shook his head.

“Well, Sherlock’s going to sit there until–” There was a tugging at his sleeve, pulling the bite of food away from his waiting mouth. “Yes, Jawn?”

“Can’t do it, My’coff,” Jawn said, looking at him with big eyes and holding up his fork.

“You can’t do what, eat?”

Jawn shook his head.

“I find that a bit hard to believe, lad. You have a working mouth, don’t you?”

Jawn furrowed his brow, puzzled, and put his fork to his mouth.

“See, it works. Now eat, please.” Mycroft turned to his younger brother, who was sticking his fingers directly into his sauce, then licking them off. “That tastes better on the pasta, you know.”

Jawn puffed his chest like an indignant hen. “NO, My’coff!” he insisted. “See?!” He tried to spear one of the noodles with his little fork, and managed to get it halfway to his mouth before it fell off and landed back on his plate with a soft ‘splat’.

Mycroft, who had started to scold Jawn about using his inside voice again, stopped mid-sentence. “Try again, lad…press harder this time.”

Jawn did, pressing so hard that Mycroft was afraid he was going to crack his plate in half (what’s one more emotional meltdown on a day like today?), but the results were the same. The prongs on the ‘little’ forks weren’t long enough to stick through the thick pasta.

Well, they were most certainly not getting adult forks. Mycroft was about to say one thing he’d never in a million years thought he’d ever say (again, on a day full of first-time-ever’s…): “Just use your fingers.”

This caused both boys to freeze, Sherlock gaping at him…especially since he’d just had his hand swatted for dipping it into his sauce.

“Fingers?” Jawn asked, glancing between Mycroft and his plate.

“Yes, just this once.” This was a mistake, Mycroft could tell by the leer that flashed across the little doctor’s face. Sherlock daintily picked up a single noodle and ate it...in the same instant both of Jawn’s tiny fists where buried in pasta as he squawked in delight.

“Christ. What have I done?” Mycroft wrinkled his nose as Jawn ate a fist full of pasta, sauce smearing across half his face.

“My’coff do it?” Sherlock touched a sauce covered finger to the fork in Mycroft’s hand, mouth open like an expectant baby bird.

“Do you lose all your motor skills when you’re this tiny? Is this a common occurrence?” Mycroft sighed wearily, even as he stuck a bite of pasta from Sherlock’s plate and popped it into his little brother’s waiting mouth.

Sherlock only wrinkled his nose at him while he chewed.

“Chew properly, with your mouth closed…no one wants to see that.” Mycroft speared a large bite of his own food…after all, this might just be his last chance for the day to eat a full meal while it was still warm.

“ ‘gain, My’coff? ‘gain?” Sherlock reached out to tug his brother’s sleeve, which the man artfully dodged. “Hands to yourself when they’re covered in anything questionable.” At this rate, they were all going to need a bath. Speaking of…”Jawn, are you done- Oh **GOD**.”

The bib that Sherlock had so lovingly fastened around Jawn neck had been for ‘naught…the little doctor was covered in sauce from the top of his spiky-haired head down to his toes. Which was quite a feat, providing that Mycroft hadn’t given him nearly that much sauce on his plate in the first place.

Or so he’d thought.

Jawn gave him a beatific grin, the sauce on his eyelashes smudging against his cheeks. “I can have more, My'coff?” Jawn held his empty plate for Mycroft to see.

“Perhaps you should have eaten what you were given instead of turning yourself into a walking tomato.” Though, Mycroft noted, there wasn’t a piece of pasta in sight.

"‘Mato?” Jawn stared at his arm critically before licking some of the sauce off. “I’m a'licious!”

“My'coff? More?” Sherlock held his mouth open.

“Yes, alright.” Mycroft scooped a bite into his baby brother mouth before getting up to refill Jawn’s plate, holding it in front of himself with only two fingers. "Jawn ate his salad as well?”

Jawn frowned down at the drawing he was making in the sauce on his shirt. “I eated the carrots. Y'abbits y'ike it.”

“What happened to the lettuce?”  
  
Jawn turned in his seat to face Mycroft (further smearing red sauce all over the back of the chair…well, that was something that they were going to have to take care of while they were big, not him. Babysitter, begrudgingly…housekeeper, no) and peered up at him as he shrugged innocently.

“I saw!” Sherlock sat up on his knees and leaned over the table, eager to tell his brother what–

“Ah-ah, I was asking Jawn. You sit and eat.”

The excitement wilted from the little detective’s face and he sat back down, pouting over his plate…it wasn’t the same when Mycroft didn’t do it.

Mycroft turned his attention back to the matter at hand…the sauce-covered matter that looked as if he were starting to gum up already. “What happened to the lettuce, Jawn?”

Jawn blinked up at him, but the angelic affect he was hoping to achieve wasn’t quite as effective when he was coated in rapidly drying tomato paste.

“Jawn. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Jawn lifted his hand and started to suck his fingers. “Ummm,” he hummed, “…y’abbits eated?”

“The rabbits.”

“Y’ah!”

“The rabbits on your bib.”

“Uh-huh!”

“They ate it.”

Jawn nodded quickly.

“…I find that hard to believe, little boy.”

“I know where it is," Sherlock grumbled.

“Y’abbits.” John scowled at him.

“Nu’uuh.”

“That’s enough.” Mycroft put Jawn’s plate down in front of him. “I also know where it is, but I’d prefer to finish my dinner before I deal with it.”

“Not y’abbits?”

Mycroft sat down and put another bite of pasta into his mouth, an eyebrow cocked at the little doctor. “Finish your supper, boys. Then it’s bath time.” Mycroft held a bite up to Sherlock’s lips.

“I y’ike baffs!” Jawn crowed, a piece of pasta flying out of his mouth and onto the table. Another thing for them to clean up later.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full please.”

“So’wwy!”

Sherlock turned his mouth away from the bite of salad Mycroft held to his mouth. “Jawn din’ hafa’ eat veg’ables!”

“He did eat his carrots, and I know for a fact that you like your greens!”

“Do n’yot!”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’ wan’em!” Sherlock whined, turning his full body away in his seat.

Of course, after the day they’d had ( _especially_ after the day they’d had), Mycroft could have threatened his little brother again. He could have swatted him again. He could have raised his voice again.

But Mycroft did none of these things.

“Yes, you do,” he repeated, his voice soft, coaxing. “You do because you’re a good boy, aren’t you…yes, you are.”

Sherlock slowly turned back, eyes big and wide…and ah, yes, there it was! The dazed, dreamy look was misting them over again. “Am?” he asked.

“Yes, you are,” Mycroft cooed at him, smiling as he held the forkful of greens out as an offering. “You’re a good lad, and you want to keep being good for Mycroft, don’t you? Just a bite, for me? Please?”

Sherlock opened his mouth obediently, taking offered bite of salad.

“There’s my good boy. Doing such a good job eating his dinner.”

Sherlock ducked his head and looked up at Mycroft through his lashes before accepting another bite of salad.

“I’m good, too. I eated all'a dinners, too.” Jawn’s short sauce covered fingers tugged on Mycroft’s wrist. “I can eat lettuces, too, My'coff.” Jawn held his mouth open for a bite of salad.

Perfect. They were both tiny and eager to please. 

Hopefully they stayed that way.

“Yes, Jawn finished his dinner very well," Mycroft cooed, scooping a bite of salad into Jawn’s mouth. 

The little Doctor grimaced a bit, but dutifully chewed and swallowed.

Mycroft helped himself to one last bite, he’d make the driver stop for take away on the way home. “Is everyone full? Good. Put your plates and silverware into the sink please.”

Mycroft watched as a shard of lettuce wiggled its way out the leg of Jawn’s romper. “...It’s most certainly time for a bath.”

“But I take'd one aw’ready,” Sherlock said as he placed his dishes in the sink and turned the faucet on them.

Mycroft wiped the set of saucy fingerprints from his wrist. “ ‘Took’ one, and no, you did not. Sitting in a tub of water and cups does not count as a full bath.”

Jawn reached down to flick the lettuce away; “…Y’abbit spit up,” he said sheepishly, when he saw Mycroft watching.

Mycroft curled his lip and looked away; that was an image he could have lived without for the rest of his life. Almost as bad as the worms. “Just put your plate in the sink, lad, and try not to touch anything else.”

“I go starts water?” Sherlock asked, and was off like a shot before Mycroft could finish telling him ‘Yes, you may.’ “But no bubbles! Don’t add a thing until I get there!” he added quickly, resulting in a loud “AW!” in protest.

Mycroft turned back to Jawn, who while had listened and placed his dishes in the sink, was now playing in the faucet that Sherlock had left running. The little doctor laughed and clapped his hands in the running water, leaving red-tinged droplets and puddles all over the counter.

“You’re a right mess, aren’t you?” Mycroft asked as he leaned over and turned it off.

Jawn giggled and reached up with his wet, grungy hands, waiting to be picked up.

“Oh, no…certainly not. Not in these clothes.”

Jawn whinged, his grotty little fingers clenching the air.

“Aren’t you going to help Sherlock fill the tub?” Mycroft asked, taking a nearly imperceptible step back from the filthy little burglar.

“I can help!” Jawn turned on his heel and raced out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of soggy lettuce in his wake.

Mycroft stood frozen for a moment, repulsed. “I am not picking that up," he told himself; "...though it will be me who steps in it later," he grumbled with an eye roll. Using the broom beside the fridge, he swept the bits away from the main walkway, following the trail to the bathroom.

“JAWN! THA'S BAD! My'coff gunna be mad a’ you!” Sherlock shouted. 

The accompanying giggle did not bode well. 


	10. "I Winned!" By Jawn and Sher'yock. Alternatively, "Quack, Quack, Splat," By the Ducks

Mycroft left the broom in the hallway and poked his head into the bathroom. Jawn was sitting in the half full tub, struggling to get his romper off. Lettuce floated on top of the water.

Christ, how much salad had he put on Jawn’s plate!

Mycroft heaved a huge sigh; thank God, this would be the last big step before their bedtime, and there would finally be some peace around here. He rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, and went to fetch Jawn out of the bath. “How is this helping, exactly?” he grunted as he lifted the giant, soaking wet toddler out of the water at arms’ length.

Jawn only laughed hysterically, until he snorted. “I y’ike ba’ffs!” he said again, and threw his leg back over the side as soon as Mycroft set him on his feet.

“NO,” Mycroft said firmly, and pulled him back. “What is it with you both and climbing in fully clothed?!” He unsnapped the dripping, stained onesie (another chore for Ms. Hudson; they seemed to keep piling up…she must really care for them if she hadn’t booted them into the street by now), and tugged it over Jawn’s head, the smaller man squawking and fussing the entire time until his head popped free.

Sherlock, who was now on his knees next to the tub and swirling the soggy lettuce leaves in the water, giggled. “Jawn na-key!” he sang.

“AM NOT!” Jawn shouted, kicking a foot out at the little detective and thankfully missing him by a mile.

“Not yet, he’s not.” Mycroft swatted a bare, wet leg, causing a yelp, then tore both sides of Jawn’s nappy open and let it drop to the floor. “Oh, God,” he groaned, looking away.

Bits of soggy lettuce clung to Jawn’s skin and to the inside of his discarded nappy. “Please put your nappy into the rubbish can.”

“Jawn nekkie now," Sherlock snarked at the bath water, ignoring the little doctor’s indignant squawk. Mycroft helped Sherlock up off the floor and began to undress him.

“Gunna ba'ff wif’ lettuce?” Jawn had been about to get back into the tub when Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat.

“No. I’m not going to bathe you in lettuce.”

“Jawn! Jawn, we can go p'ishing, Jawn!” Sherlock huffed as his shirt was pulled over his head, but was too excited to fuss for long.

Jawn clapped his hands before falling to his knees in front of the bathroom cupboard, rooting through a large bucket of toys. “I foun’ em!” he crowed, holding up two small nets.

Sherlock squealed happily and, just as Mycroft was unfastening his nappy, yanked himself out of his grasp to join Jawn down at the side of the tub, leaving Mycroft holding the (surprisingly) dry garment.

Well, if the boys wanted to make a game out of cleaning up after themselves, he wasn’t going to stop them. Especially when he had no strong urge to touch the whole lot of soggy, disgusting, wilted lettuce himself…actually, he wondered if there was a way to make a game out of cleaning the kitchen, as well. Hm.

Both boys were bent over the edge of the tub, chasing after pieces of floating detritus with their little nets and giggling to themselves, with a few minor disagreements about who was going to catch what piece, and even Mycroft had to admit…it was strangely cute.

Doubly so with both of their cute little rounded bottoms sticking up in the air, each one marked with various stages of healing from several spankings throughout the day.

Mycroft took out his phone and snapped another picture…one more for the scrapbook. "Hurry up, boys, before the water gets cold.”

“No more lettuces!” Jawn cheered as Sherlock scooped the last bit out of the water. “Bubbas, p'ease, My'coff!" he added, before he dropped his net beside the tub and half belly flopped into the tub, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

“Those nets need emptied into the rubbish can. Both of them, Jawn Hamish.”

“Bubbas first?”

Sherlock dumped his entire net into the rubbish can and raced back to the tub; “Jawn, share, Jawn,” one foot poised over the edge.

Jawn sat up and patted the water; " 'mon’ Sher'yock!”

Mycroft huffed a sigh. “You are picking that up the second your bath is over, Jawn.” It wasn’t worth the argument.

“Bubba'gum f'wavored bubbas, p'ease!”

“We runned out. We need toys, My'coff!”  
  
“Excuse me?”

Jawn had the good sense to look sheepish. “More toys, p’ease?” he added.

“That’s better.” Mycroft sat on the closed toilet lid next to the bath, and started to look through the massive bucket of toys. “And whatever I give you will be dried off thoroughly before being put away so it doesn’t mildew, understood?”

Sherlock and Jawn looked at each other; the thought had never crossed their mind before. Whomever was Big and in charge at bathtime simply left any toys played with in the tub to dry overnight.

The moment was interrupted by a bright blue rubber duck wearing an eye-patch and red-striped bandana hit the water between them with a SPLAT!, sending water into their eyes. Sherlock bleated and furiously wiped it away…he hated getting water in his face. “My’coff, no!”

“You did ask for it…literally,” the elder brother said, unperturbed, and tossed in another duck, this one red with a elegant pirate hat and a beard around its bill.

“I don’t wanna play pirates. Can we have a different toys?” Jawn stretched his short arm out of the tub, fingers barely brushing against the bucket.

“Why n–”

“I'ma Cap'n. Swab a’ decks ya scurvy cur!” Sherlock used the red duck to squirt water at Jawn, causing him to sputter and fuss.

“Yes, I see.” Mycroft pulled several wind up fish out of the bucket and offered them to Jawn. “Would you prefer these instead?”

“More p'ishing? Cap'n p'ishing boat, Jawn?” Sherlock scooted closer to Jawn, as much as his stork legs would allow, reaching out to pat the fish.

“These p'ish are from the bottom of the ocean. Gotsa go ‘splorin the bottom of the sea.” Jawn took the red duck from Sherlock and pushed it beneath the water until it touched the bottom of the tub, then hooted with laughter as he released the duck and it splashed out of the water and out of the tub.

Sherlock squealed and clapped at the sight. “ ‘gain, ‘gain!” he giggled, and grabbed the blue duck before Jawn could. He shoved it to the bottom of the tub, pressing down hard on it and laughing hysterically at the bubbles coming from the bottom. “Y’ook, Jawn! He–!”

“Don’t say it,” Mycroft interjected.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his brother. “You didn’ e’ben know wha’ I was gonna say!”

“I most certainly did. That’s why I said ‘Don’t say it’.”

Sherlock blew a raspberry at him and turned back to his duck, still being held at the bottom of the tub. He let go, excitedly waiting for it to pop up and fly straight out of the tub…

It didn’t.

“Aw,” Sherlock said, face falling as he watched it sadly bobbing at the bottom of the tub, too heavy and full of water to do much else.

“You didn’ do it right,” Jawn said, winding up another fish and placing it in the water, the spinning fins making soft plopping sounds on the surface as is ‘swam’ in a weak circle.

“Didn’?” Sherlock asked, putting a finger in his mouth and peering down at duck.

“Didn’. Try ‘gain.”

“Jawn do it?”

While the two boys had seemingly called a truce (for now) and were babbling peacefully at each other, Mycroft sought out a flannel cloth, bodywash, shampoo, and…for Sherlock, at least…conditioner, as well as a cup.

Jawn showed Sherlock how to empty the duck of water, without squirting it into Jawn’s eyes. “He sinked when he’s got'sta fly.” Jawn shoved the duck below the water and quickly released it, sending it flying out of the water and directly at Mycroft, bonking him in the chest before hitting the floor.

“Ohhhh.” Two little boys gasped in unison.

“Ass'cident, My'coff! Ass'cident!!!’” Jawn cried covering his bum with his hands. Alligator tears on the ready.

Mycroft stared at the wet spot on his shirt for a moment, eyebrow nearly in his hairline. He knew his reaction would make the rest of the evening; “... Jawn has terrible aim.”

“...Aim?” Jawn asked warily.

“That duck is perfectly capable of making it all the way to the sink.”

“Duck f'wy to da’ sink!” Sherlock half crawled out of the bathtub to capture the wayward captain and put him back under the water. “I try!”

Mycroft quickly bent down and picked up the duck before grabby little fingers could reach it, then picked up the other. He held them both up, and waited until he had two sets of widened eyes focused on him intently. “We’re going to have a little contest,” he said. “You’re each going to take turns with your ducks, and whomever lands theirs in the sink first, wins.”

The eyes turned to meet each other, having a silent conversation. Finally, they both turned back to peer up at the other man. “Wha’ do I get when I win?” Sherlock asked first.

“Or me,” Jawn said, giving the little detective a dirty look.

“Whomever wins…” Mycroft considered this for a moment. “Whomever wins, is not required to clean the kitchen when you’re both big again.”

Sherlock and Jawn shared another look, then began reaching for their prospective ducks in earnest, with a chorus of “Me! Me first! No, I’M first! Nu-uh, me!”

Mycroft held the ducks aloft, then cleared his throat loudly until they’d shut their squawking mouths. “Since Jawn was the last one to pop his duck, Sherlock goes next.”

Jawn crossed his arms huffily as Sherlock hooted, as Mycroft handed him the red duck. “Take your time, make sure your aim is spot on,” the elder brother said, and, while Sherlock was preoccupied, took up the cup and filled it with water from the bath, and proceeded to wet down Jawn’s hair. Hopefully the game lasted long enough to get them bathed.

Jawn huffed and tried to wiggle away as Mycroft rubbed a dollop of shampoo into his short hair. “No, My'coff! Got'ta cons'trate!”

Sherlock shushed him before Mycroft had a chance. He adjusted the position his duck and then let it fly. It arced through the air and then banged against the counter before hitting the ground.

“Ohhh,” Sherlock whinged, putting his chin on the edge of the tub while he gave his duck the stink eye.

“My turn, my turn! My'coff, off p'ease!” Jawn tipped his soapy head out reach. “I dun’ wanna c’ean a’ kitchen!”

Mycroft sat back on his haunches; “Quickly then. Your aim will be even worse if there is soap in your eyes.”

Jawn aimed his duck, glancing between it and the sink repeatedly; the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Jawn’s duck splashed out of the tub, bouncing off the faucet and flying most of the way back to the tub.

“That was very close. Sherlock’s turn.” Mycroft tossed the ducks back into the tub and filled a cup. “Let’s rinse you off.”

“Bu’ I win!” Jawn declared, with a loud, resounding “NUH-UH!” from Sherlock.

“No, you don’t. Tilt your head back.”

“Do so!” Jawn insisted, even as Mycroft reached under his chin and made him tilt his head back, anyway.

“It didn’t land in the sink.” Mycroft slowly poured water over Jawn’s hair while gently working the shampoo out with his fingers.

“It touched the sink!”

“But it didn’t land in the sink, which is the goal.”

“Ha-ha,” Sherlock sang as he pushed his duck underwater, and began to ready it.

“No comments from the peanut gallery are necessary.”

Jawn crossed his arms and gave Mycroft an upside down glare that could rival the detective’s when he was in full sulk-mode. “Wipe that look off your face…wait, I can do that for you,” he said, and proceeded wipe one of his wet hands over Jawn’s face, then smirked as he sputtered.

“Shhh. I’m ‘bout to win.” Sherlock smirked as his duck flew out of the tub. The duck captain splatted against the mirror, bouncing off the counter and onto the floor.

“Ha!” Jawn stuck his tongue out at the little detective. “You not gunna win, I am.”

Sherlock pouted and squawked as a cup of water doused his curls. “Nooooooo, My'coff. Dun y'ike it.”

“No, you never have enjoyed this bit.” Mycroft dumped a dollop of shampoo on his head and ignored his sulking.

“Sher'yock gotsta c'ean kitchen tonight?” Jawn asked, his duck arcing through the air and landing in the sink.

“Nooooo, na’ fair!” Sherlock wailed.

Mycroft gently batted a soapy thumb away from the baby’s mouth. “That was very impressive.”

Jawn preened under the praise, his chest puffing like a proud hen.

“Jawn, two oughta f'ree, Jawn?” Sherlock pouted as Mycroft tipped his head back to rinse his hair.

“No. I winned. I a'ways c'ean a’ kitchen. Your turn.”

“Nuh’uh, you don’!” Sherlock tried to sit up and glare at Jawn accusingly, but the grip Mycroft’s hand had on his hair made him reconsider. “Jawn doesn’t c’ean!” he insisted as he glared up at his brother instead.

Mycroft covered Sherlock’s eyes and poured another cup of water down the back of his head, rinsing out most of the suds. One more cup should do it. “Then who does…?” he asked, glancing over at the now-suspiciously quiet victor of their game. Though, the moment the last syllable left his lips, he already knew exactly who his little brother was referring to…

“Na-na!” Sherlock confirmed, reaching up to move Mycroft’s hand out of his face.

Mycroft dumped the next cup of water over the indignant little detective without ceremony, his gaze now directly focused on the bath’s only other occupant. “Well, now there’s a surprise,” he said flatly, over Sherlock’s choking and spitting noises.

Jawn swallowed, looking nervous, and tried to sink down into the bathwater. When that tactic obviously failed, he tried another; he gave a forced, half-hearted yawn, and rubbed his eyes. “I really, really tired,” he said, and peeked between his fingers to see if it was working.

“I think this new information means the forfeit," Mycroft drawled, holding the little detective in place as he doused his hair in conditioner.

“Dun’ nee’ it, My’coff, s’op, p’ease?” Sherlock wailed.

“Bu’ I winned the game!” Jawn pouted, turning away from them to hide his face against the tile. “Na’ fair.”

“It’s not fair to make Nana clean up all of your messes either.”

“Na’ all of ‘em,” Jawn protested. “Just when we bo'f little.”

Sherlock squalled as Mycroft dumped two cups of water over his head in quick succession, rinsing out the conditioner.

“It’s still very naughty and I’ll not allow it.”

“My’coff na’ da’ boss of da’ kitchen.” Jawn grumbled, pouting when his soapy thumb touched his tongue.

Mycroft bit his tongue, tempted to show the bratty little doctor just how much a wet bottomed spanking stung, but…

“You do love Nana, don’t you?”

“Yea!” came the reply in unison.

“Wouldn’t she be so pleased to see that you’ve cleaned up your mess all on your own?”

Jawn turned back around to face them, already forgetting that he was supposed to be sulking after going through all that effort to win the game, only to have it stricken from the record. “C’ean for Nana?”

Mycroft nodded. “For your Nana,” he said, pouring one last cup of water over Sherlock’s head just to make sure it was completely rinsed…if he didn’t, Sherlock’s hair as prone to looking weighed down and greasy instead of freshly washed.

“No mooooooooooooore!” The little detective howled, and twisted out of Mycroft’s grip…well, Sherlock twisted, and Mycroft let him go because 1)he didn’t want him to hurt himself, and 2)because he was done with his hair, anyway. “I know, I know, I’m awful,” he tutted and, after taking pity on his little brother while watching him try to wipe the water out of his eyes with wet hands, took one of the fresh towels and offered him a corner to dry his face with. “And you’re overtired. Which is why we’re done.”

“No more ba’ff?” Jawn asked, sounding disappointed.

“I thought you were ‘really, really tired’,” Mycroft replied as he kept Sherlock from all but jumping out of the tub.

“Im invi-…I’m ‘vigor-…I’m waked up.”

“…Just pull the plug, Jawn.”

Jawn frowned but did as he was told, popping the plug and letting it float on top of the water. “Y’ook, y’ook!” He hooted as the plug began to spin in the vortex of water leaving the tub. “Gimme the ducks! P’ease! The ducks!!” Jawn half crawled out of the tub to retrieve Sherlock’s duck from the floor.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and helped Sherlock out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel, using a second to gently press the water out of his curls. “I dun’ y’ike baffs.” Sherlock pouted, trying to wiggle away from Mycroft.

“How about pajamas? Do you like pajamas?” Mycroft asked, patting the rest of the baby dry.

“I y’ike em!” Jawn chirped, climbing out of the tub and standing with his hands on his hips. “Can I have g’een ones?”

“Did you rinse the soap off the ducks?” Mycroft regretted the words even as they came out of his mouth. Jawn hooted and plopped his bottom back into the tub and turned on the water, squealing and back pedaling when cold water poured out of the tap and splashed him.

“Halp!!! Halp me!!!” Jawn shrieked, losing his coordination as he panicked, unable to get out of the tub.

Mycroft swiftly turned off the water and stared down his nose at the panting little doctor.

“Was co’d," Jawn wheezed, reaching up a hand in silent request to be helped up.

“Yes, I gathered that.” Mycroft helped lift a sopping wet Jawn out of the tub and set him down on the bathmat. After taking the last dry towel and wrapping it around the naked, shivering little doctor, he turned to his younger brother; “Can you be a good lad and rinse your bath toys? In the sink?” he added quickly.

Sherlock stood to the side, his own towels draped over his head and shoulders like a shroud while he sucked his thumb and watched. “Duck’th?”

“And Jawn’s net, yes,” Mycroft replied as he vigorously rubbed Jawn’s hair dry, along with a chorus of irritable squeaks and squawks coming from underneath the towel. “Good boy.”

Sherlock scooted by, careful not to get caught up in the melee’, and fetched both ducks from the bottom of the tub. “Bu’ tha’s Jawn’s net,” he said with a slight frown, and nudged it with his toe.

“I know it is.”

“He drop it.”

“Yes, I know he did,” Mycroft sighed…he knew where this was going already, having had the same circular argument many, many times over today. “But I’m asking you to pick it up, because you’re a very good helper, aren’t you?”

Sherlock stared down at the toy, weighing his options. “…I get a prize?”

‘Conniving little bastard.’ “We’ll see.”

“Hey!” Jawn shoved his way out from underneath his towel. “I was gonna–!”

Mycroft quickly covered him back up. “No more competitions tonight.”

“I rea’yee wan’ a prize,” Sherlock pouted, begrudgingly picking up Jawn’s net and all but throwing it into the sink.

Christ, he was never getting out of this day alive. “Prizes didn’t go well earlier, remember?”

“I y’ost my car,” Jawn gasped and struggled to untangle himself from the towels. “My’coff! Car! I nee’ it.” A pinch to his bum caught his attention quickly.

“Your car is on the desk. You can have it once you are dressed and have cleaned up the kitchen.”

“Another prize, too?” Jawn scrubbed at him bum, trying to rub out the sting. Sherlock looked up hopefully, showing off the freshly rinsed bath toys.

“Only, and I do mean only, if the kitchen is spotless and I don’t hear a single peep of sass from either of you,” Mycroft looked down his nose at them. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, My’coff.” The little boys echoed in unison.

 


	11. “Fu’g is a ba’ Word,” by Jawn Wad’son; Alternatively, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuu'g!" by Sher'yock Holme'th

“Now get your bottoms into the nursery. You both need nappies before we have to add puddles to the list of things to clean.”

Jawn looked massively offended at the implication. “We don’ pee on the floor,” he said as Sherlock scurried around him to drop their bath toys back in basket. “Tha’s gross!”

“I think you lost the privilege of calling anything ‘gross’ the moment you started cultivating a garden in your nappy.”

Jawn blushed beet red from his hairline down to his toes and scowled at Mycroft, then spun around as Sherlock started cackling. “Shut up!” Jawn shouted at his back as the naked detective dashed from the room and down the hall.

“I’d was funny!” Sherlock crowed back.

Jawn folded his arms and stood there, glaring at the empty doorway until Mycroft was sure that he saw steam rising from the little doctor’s wet hair. “Wasn’ funny,” he grumbled.

Mycroft folded the last towel and hung it to dry. “…It was a little funny,” he countered.

“On’y ‘cause you said it!!!”

“There’s no need to shout.” Mycroft put his hand at Jawn’s back and got him walking out of the room, albeit begrudgingly.

“He’s still y’aughin’,” Jawn grumbled as they got nearer to the nursery, where you could, indeed, still hear Sherlock’s devious giggling.

“I’ll make him stop,” Mycroft promised…if only to avoid another blowout so soon. How on earth these two made it together this long without killing each other was a genuine mystery.  
  
“Jawn ge’d a nappy garden,” Sherlock crowed as Mycroft guided Jawn into the room.

“That’s enough Sherlock. Get yourself a nappy.”

“Bu’ you said a funny.”

“I did. But do you remember the conversation we had this morning about teasing?” Mycroft pulled two lightweight sleepers out of their dresser. “You can always sit on the step as a reminder.”

Sherlock huffed and threw himself down on the bed. “You said it. I jus’ laugh.”

“And I regret it. My apologies, Jawn.”

The little doctor looked up from the nappy bin; “ ’s alrigh’.” He handed two nappies to Mycroft and crawled onto the bed beside Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft took one and unfolded it. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock automatically lifted his hips off the bed, while still glaring at the ceiling.

“Yes, that would have been my next request, very good.” Mycroft slid the garment underneath his little brother’s backside and Sherlock dropped like a rock, arms still crossed the entire time. “But I was going to ask…don’t you have something to say to Jawn?”

“Wha’d I say?”

“An apology for laughing at him, for starters.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he gaped at his brother as his bits were powdered. “Bu’d it was funny!”

“It wasn’t nice. And that’s why I’ve apologized. You should, as well.”

Sherlock pouted and let his head fall back while beside him, Jawn silently gloated.  
  
A sharp swat to the tender bit where his thigh met his bum made Sherlock yelp. “So'wwy! So'wwy, Jawn.”

“S'alrigh,” Jawn shrugged.

Mycroft shook his head and quickly did up Sherlock’s nappy. “Almost bedtime. _Almooost_.” He sing-songed, ignoring Sherlock’s pout as he wrestled his long limbs into the sleeper, taking care to get the devilishly small snaps to line up.

“I dun’ y'ike dis one, My'coff. Ha'b diffren’ ones?”

“No. Pink is very fetching on you--matches your bum perfectly.” Mycroft quickly got Jawn nappied and dressed as well. “And anyways, you’ll be sleeping most of the time you’re wearing them.”

“I y'ike dis one.” Jawn patted the puppy on his chest.  
  
“Good, I’m glad you do.” Mycroft herded both boys out of the nursery and down the hall, back into the kitchen. “See this mess?” he asked, gesturing to the trail of wet lettuce that Jawn had left, and the pinkish-tinged puddles of watered down tomato sauce from Sherlock’s ‘washing’ of the dishes (which were also still stacked haphazardly in the sink).”This is all going to be cleaned in the next–” Mycroft checked his watch; “–twenty minutes.”

  
Sherlock tucked his thumb in his mouth and stared at the mess, then looked down at Jawn, who turned to stare back up at him. Then, Jawn craned his neck to peer up at Mycroft. “Tha’s a y’ot,” he said.

“Not if we each do our share.” Mycroft strode over to the sink, where he procured two flannels from one of the nearby drawers. He turned on the tap, and dampened each one in turn. “You,” he said, handing one to his brother; “clean up any puddles and wipe down the countertops, and you,” he said, handing one to Jawn; “clean up your trail.”

“Wha’d abou’d–?”

“I will take care of the dishes. Nineteen minutes left, darlings. Tic-toc.”

Jawn squeaked and dropped to his knees, crawling across the floor. At the first bit of lettuce, he carefully spread out his flannel, put the bit of lettuce on the center of it, and then dragged the flannel along beside him as he scurried to the next bit.

“Not what I intended, but that works. Good job, Jawn.” Mycroft turned to the sink of dishes and put in the stopper. “Sherlock...if you want another prize, you’d better hurry up.”

Sherlock stood in the middle of the kitchen, thumb still in his mouth, damp flannel hanging from his other hand. “I dun’ wan'a.”

“Seventeen minutes.”

Sherlock whinged around his thumb and waggled his flannel at Mycroft; “Diff'ren' job? I wan’ do bubba's.”

“I’ve already added the soap. Come clean up these tomato spots.”

Sherlock whinged again and stomped his feet.

“Sherlock.”

Another whinge, even louder than the previous two.

Mycroft sighed…this night was never going to end. “Sherlock Holmes,” he repeated as he turned around, a warning already on his lips. “One,” he said…  
  
…and instantly had his arms full of whining baby clinging to his waist. “Nooooo,” Mycroft said, prying his baby brother off of him. “No, Jawn is doing his job and cleaning up his mess; you need to do the same.” He worked Sherlock loose and turned him towards the counter; “Look, there’s not even very much. Wipe this part of the counter clean, and you’re done.”

Sherlock whipped right back around and refastened himself to Mycroft. “Nnnnnnnnnnnnnn’gggghhhh!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and, yet again, pried the little nappy-wearing barnacle off of him. “Counter first, then cuddles.”

“ _Nnnnnnnnnnoooooo_!”

“I fini’ssed, My’coff!”

Mycroft took a moment to glance down as he held his insistent little bugger–er, brother at arm’s length. “Nicely done, Jawn…you get another prize.”

“ _NOOOOOOOOOO_!” Sherlock's knees buckled, and he melted to the floor. 

Mycroft actively ignored his little brother and turned to Jawn. “Here, give me that,” he said, reaching for the dirty flannel; “and go wash your hands.”

“Then ge’d a pry’ze?”

“Yes, then you get a prize.”

“ _MYYYYYYYYYYYYCCCCCCCCCCC_!”

Jawn covered his ears with his wet, sudsy hands.

“Wonderful.” So much for ignoring poor behavior. Mycroft’s hands went to his hips and leaned over the big, screechy, weepy puddle that was Sherlock. “That is enough,” he said firmly.

“ _MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY_ –!”

“That. Is. ENOUGH!”

Sherlock froze completely, cutting himself off mid-wail. He lifted his head and stared up at his brother, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, back to his regular tone of voice.

Sherlock continued to stare up his brother and sniffle, his chest hitching. He put a nervous finger to his mouth and began to worry with it, unsure of what was happening next.

“Jawn?”

“Y’ah?”

“Finish washing your hands, please,” Mycroft said, then bent down to help a reluctant Sherlock to his feet; “…then pick a prize and join us.”

Jawn stuck his hands back under the tap for a quick rinse. “Where you goin’?

“To pick out a story for bedtime.”

“Sher'yock turn a’ pick the story?”

“It’s my turn, actually.”

“My'coff turn?” Jawn giggled, drying his hands by wiping them on the front of his jams.

“My, My, My, My!” Sherlock cried, wrapping himself around his older brother like a sniveling little barnacle.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and scooped the little detective up and headed for the nursery. “Quickly, Jawn.”

“Qui'k y'ike bunny!” Jawn chirped, both hands buried in the prize bucket.

“Precisely,” Mycroft called over his shoulder as he entered the dark nursery. He tried to set Sherlock down on the cot, but the baby wailed and clung tighter. “Oh, for heavens sake!” He propped Sherlock’s bum against the bed and strained to flip on the bedside lamp.

“My'coff, I pick one!”

“Good boy, come into the nursery.”

“I foun’ a dinosaur to be fren’s wi'f Jeffrey.”

“That’s wonderful. Bring them with you.”

Mycroft heard Jawn’s feet thudding through the flat and shook his head…Mrs. Hudson simply had to have ear plugs.

Either that, or she had gone a bit deaf and wasn’t telling anybody.

Jawn bounded into the room and, before Mycroft could say “No!”, took a flying leap onto the cot next to Sherlock.  
  
The entire floor of this flat was just going to cave in one day; he’d be willing to bet money on it.

“Look’id, Sher’yock!” Jawn babbled excitedly as he showed off his new plastic-moulded friend. “He’s a shar’b tooth!”

Sherlock sniffled around his thumb, and released his grip on his brother’s sleeve.

“A shark tooth?” Mycroft asked.

“A SHAR’B TOOTH!”

“There’s no need to shout.” Now that his little brother was sufficiently distracted, Mycroft walked over to the bookshelf at the opposite side of the room, and began to look for a book. A particular book.

“Bu’d you didn’t hear me a’firs time!”

“I heard you loud and clear.” Ah, there it was. Mycroft pulled the slim book from the shelf and looked at the cover; ‘The Tale of Peter Rabbit.’

“Bu’d you say a’ wrong thing.”

“I did. Are there dummies stashed in here somewhere?” Mycroft gave Sherlock a meaningful glance before pulling open the night stand drawer.

“Shar'b tooth’s are very good dinosaurs.”

“Yes. Though you didn’t seem to care for the one in the film earlier.”

“This one is nicer than tha’d one.”

Mycroft rooted through the toys and half empty tubes of nappy creme until he came up with two dummies. “You two need to hunt all of these down and put them in a basket someplace safe.”

Sherlock popped his thumb out of his mouth and made grabby hands at the dummies; “Mmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy.”

“They need to be rinsed. I’ll be right back.” The second Mycroft stepped toward the bathroom door, Sherlock began to wail.

“For fucks sake!” Mycroft popped one of the dummies in his mouth, giving it a quick suck to remove any lint and popped it into Sherlock’s mouth

Sherlock instantly quieted down and stared up at his brother, eyes wide and teary. His fingers went to the dummy in his mouth, gently patting it as if to make sure it was really there.

“Um, My’coff?”

Mycroft sighed. “I have one for you too, don’t worry.”

Jawn reached back and rubbed the back of his head, mussing up his hair. “Tha’d, um, tha’d word you say’ed, um, you say’ed a ba’ word.”

Mycroft hesitated and glanced at Jawn out of the corner of his eye. “What word?”

“The word you say’ed.”

Mycroft was perplexed. He genuinely couldn’t remember what he’d said. “What did I say?”

Jawn fiddled with his new dino friend nervously. “Um, you won’d…you won’d yell a’d me?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “I promise, I won’t yell at you.” What could he have possibly said??

“You say’ed, um…” Jawn bit his lip. “Um, you sayed–”

“Sometime tonight, darling.”

“You say’ed, uh, ‘fuck’.”

Mycroft looked down at Jawn.

Jawn looked back up at Mycroft.

“…You’re right. That is a bad word.”

“Fu'g?” Sherlock garbled around his dummy, grinning like the cat who’d swallowed the canary when Jawn hid his face in a blankie to giggle. “Fu'g!”

“That’s enough.”

“ _Ffffffffuuuuu'g_.”

Jawn was hyperventilating into his blanket.  
  
“Am I going to rinse Jawn’s dummy, or fetch a bar of soap? Hmmm?” Mycroft said as he headed to the bathroom.

Both little boys cackled as Sherlock whispered “fu'g” after Mycroft’s back.

“Charming.” He ran Jawn’s dummy under the faucet, taking a moment to collect himself. When he walked back into the nursery he found them quiet and wrapped around each other, with Jawn sucking on Sherlock’s dummy.

Sherlock looked up at his brother as he walked in, and smiled. Mycroft could still see faint traces of his tears in the lamplight.

“Myyyyyyyyy,” he cooed, and reached for him.

“…You’re only this cute when you know I’m not happy.”

Fingers that seemed longer than they should in the half-dark started grasping for him. “My?”

Mycroft side-eyed his little bother…ahem, _brother_ , and finally gave a small sigh before joining the boys at their cot. “I should gather my things and leave you both here in the dark,” he said, albeit half-heartedly, and slipped the clean dummy into Sherlock’s mouth. “With no story,” he added.

“Noooooooooo,” they both chimed in unison, and Jawn sat up; “We’re sor’ree.”

Sherlock patted his brother’s hand. “Th’orree, b’ery th’orree.”

Mycroft knew they were both laying it on, and thickly, because they were both stalling bedtime…but it was awfully cute.

But he wouldn’t tell them that. “Do you both promise to behave?”

Two heads nodded furiously.

“Alright. Scootch over.”


	12. “Bedtime is poo’b,” by Sher’yock Ho’mes. Alternatively, “Either Watch Your Mouth or I'll Wash Your Mouth,” by Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft propped his feet up and held the book open with one hand, using his pinkie to flip to the first page. He then cleared his throat, and began to read; “Once upon a time,” he began, wrapping his free arm around the boys at his side, his fingers curling in Sherlock’s hair. “There were four little rabbits, and their names were–”

“Fl’yob’sy,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids already drooping.

“That’s right, Flopsy. And Mopsy–”

“Mo’bsy.”

“Cottontail.”

“An’ Pe’der.”

“That’s right, Peter was the fourth little rabbit. And they all lived with their mother in a sand bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.” Mycroft paused, and looked down at the boys…

Sherlock was sound asleep, his dummy making little bobbing motions in his mouth, but Jawn was wide awake as ever and focused on the picture of Mother rabbit dressing her little one’s up for the day.

“…Where’s Da’yee y’abbit?”

“Hmm?”

Jawn looked up at Mycroft; “Where’s the Da’yee?”

“That’s…in another story.”

“Oh. We can read it nex’ time?”

“If you like this one, then we can certainly read the rest of the series.”

“Okay! Wha’d the y'abbits do nex’?”

Mycroft read the story slowly, hoping that his tone would lull the little doctor to sleep. But Jawn stayed wide-eyed and alert through the whole thing, gripping Mycroft’s waistcoat in fear when Peter was almost captured and quietly (after being reminded that Sherlock was sleeping) cheering when Peter escaped back through the fence and made it home.

”Is McG'eg'ry related to G'eg?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jawn made a face as he thought about that; “G'eg’s garden is at you house?”

“Yes.”

“Does he plant radishes and beans? I don’t y'ike y'ettuce.”

“Mmmm, I remember.” Mycroft put the book on the nightstand and gently encouraged Jawn onto his tummy as he rambled on about vegetables.

“But pota’does is my fav‘rite, all kin’na ways! Y’ike mashed, an’–!”

“Yes, those are wonderful,” Mycroft said, rubbing Jawn’s back in small circles. “Close your eyes while you tell me.”

“But I’m not tired!”

“I didn’t say ‘go to sleep’, I said ‘close your eyes’. You can talk with your eyes closed, can’t you?”

Jawn frowned. “I f’ing so,” he said, and closed his eyes. “Yea’, I can.”

“Fantastic. What’s your favorite way to eat a potato,” Mycroft asked quietly, and switched from rubbing to patting.

“Fry!”

“Shhhhh.”

“So’ree,” Jawn whispered. “I y’ike chips a lot.”

“So do I. That’s Sherlock’s favorite way, too.”

“Yea’,” Jawn said, and then grew quiet.

So quiet, that Mycroft thought he had finally drifted off, and he stilled his hand. But no sooner than he tried to ease his way off the cot; “…My’coff?”

Mycroft sighed quietly, and sat back down.

“Yes?”

“Wha’d was Sher’yock like?”

“What do you mean?”

“When he was a bay’bee.”

A faint smile crossed Mycroft’s lips; “That’s…a very loaded question,” he chuckled, and began to pat the back of Jawn’s nappy.

Jawn gave a low rumble of approval with each _whap_ , settling more and more into the bed until he was a tiny doctor shaped puddle.

“He was very much like he is now…” Mycroft smiled to himself. “Sweet and endearing and moody beyond words.”

“Wor’s,” Jawn agreed around his dummy, surreptitiously found amongst the bedding.

“What were you like?”

“I ‘unno?”

“Mm', you’d have been to small to remember. But I’m guessing you’re similar too.”

“’M n'ah a bay'bee.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, giving the next pat a little extra umph “No, of course you aren’t.”

Jawn was quiet for a moment, “’m swee’d?”

“Very.”Jawn’s cheeks pinked up and he rubbed his face on his blanket to hide. “Wha’d else?”

Mycroft smirked. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“M’no’d f’issing!”

“Shhhh…the other baby is still asleep; let’s leave him that way.”

“Sor’ree.”

“See, you can be sweet and well-behaved.” Mycroft’s hand continued to thunk against Jawn’s nappy; “…when you want to be.”

Jawn turned his head just enough to peek up at Mycroft with one still-wide awake eye. “Were we ba’?”

“You both made some questionable choices today…such as taking a bite out of my thigh earlier–” Mycroft said dryly, with one of his pats landing a little lower on Jawn’s backside and catching a bit of bare leg; “–but those were few and far between.”

Jawn squeaked and hid his face again, and Mycroft heard a muffled “Th’or’ree,” from the pillow.

“I’m glad, but that was taken care of and forgiven then.” Mycroft stopped patting and leaned forward; “But do you know what else you could both do?”

Jawn turned to face Mycroft fully and blinked at him, waiting.

“You and Sherlock could learn to be nicer to each other.”

“I y'ub Sher'yock.”

“I know you do. But you’re not very nice to him and he’s not very nice to you.”

Jawn gave a sad little sigh; “S'only when we both y'ittle it’s hard.”

“What about it is hard?”

“I ‘unno.”

“Mmmmm. There are two very smart consulting detectives in this flat. It’s a case worth solving.”

“A'cause ba’ b'havior?”

“Because you make each other miserable when you don’t get along.”

“Nana say we need a ‘ge’d along’ shirt,” Jawn yawned.

Mycroft shook out the cramps that were building in his shoulder and went back to patting Jawn’s bum. “Your Nana is a brilliant woman.”

“Y'ah. An’ scary.”

“I’ve heard all about her wooden spoon collection.”

“Sher’yocks haaaaaaaa’des them.”

“Does he? That’s good to know.”

Jawn, who’s eyelids had just started to droop, shot back open and gave Mycroft a dirty look. “Don’ use one on’im,” he grumped.

“I won’t, as long as he doesn’t give me reason to.” Mycroft whapped Jawn’s bottom; “Close your eyes, please.”

Jawn huffed and scooted closer to Sherlock, muttering under his breath about “S’upid spoons.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes (and winced a little there at the end…he might have actually pulled a muscle, after all the eye-rolling today), and gave Jawn’s backside one more softer pat before standing up and pulling the blankets higher up at their shoulders.

“Goodnight”, he whispered, and placed a kiss on each forehead.

Jawn sat up before he made it to the door.

“Where you goin’?!”

“Shhhhh.”

Jawn repeated himself in his version of a whisper; “ _Where you goin’?!_ ”

“Just to the kitchen.”

“Oh, o’gay.”

“Lie back down, please.”

“Can I come???”

“No, you stay here with Sherlock…he doesn’t like being in the dark by himself.”

“O’gay. My’coff?”

Mycroft sighs. “Yes?”

“Can you leave’a door open, p’ease?”

“Of course

Jawn settled down, curled around his Sherlock. Mycroft resisted the urge to snap one last photo and headed down the hall, leaving the nursery door open and the bathroom light on.

“Christ,” Mycroft sighed, staring at the crusty tomato sauce all over the table and the back of Jawn’s chair. Not to mention the pans he’d left to soak.

“Tea first.” He flipped on the kettle. While he waited for it to boil he re-wet Sherlock’s flannel and wiped down the table, the chair, and the counter and quickly scrubbed out the pots, leaving them to dry.

“There had better be tea in this flat, children…ah!” There was a box of his favorite, right there at the front of the cabinet, still in cello wrap. “I’m going to buy you both a pony. And your Nana a yacht…and a housekeeper.”

Mycroft made his tea and went and settled into Sherlock’s chair, sinking into the faded leather. He sat with his tea to his lips, simply breathing in the steam for a quiet moment; the first moment of quiet since, oh God…since naptime???

He took his first sip and held in his mouth for a bit, while he let his thoughts roam. He wondered how long was an appropriate time to stay, now that the boys were asleep…of course, he could always stay the night and sleep in the master bedroom, but…

No. No, that was not happening.

Then again, he could just leave. These were adults and not literal children; that had to be taken into consideration.

But...

Mycroft felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of leaving them here by themselves, at least while they were both Little.

No, he couldn’t do that, either.

He sighed…he supposed that he had enough time to finish his tea before making any decisions. He took another sip and looked around the flat, seeing the stuffed animals and blankets and sippy cups that had been left out, despite his best efforts to get the boys to clean up after themselves.

Mycroft smiled. Staying the night might not be a horrible idea.


End file.
